c 


^. 


^»^2i 


y 


e 


n 


W 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


lA^IM    |2.5 

g50     "^       ■■■ 

^  mil  2.2 


I.I 


1.25 


Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(7)6)  872-4503 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiquas 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


the  institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


[T7'  Covers  damaged/ 


D 
D 


D 


Couverture  endommagde 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurde  et/ou  pellicul6e 

Cover  title  missing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

Coloured  maps/ 

Cartes  gdographiques  en  couleur 

Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 


D 


Bound  with  other  material/ 
Relid  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  re  liure  serr6e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  int6rieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajouttos 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  dtait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6t6  film^es. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppl^mentaires; 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  6t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-dtre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mdthode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiqu6s  ci-dessous. 


I      I   Coloured  pages/ 


Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagdes 


□    Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restaurdes  et/ou  peiiicuides 


Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  d6color6es,  tachet6es  ou  piqudes 


□    Pages  detached/ 
Pages  d6tachdes 

I      I    Showthrough/ 


D 
D 


Transparence 

Quality  of  prir 

Quality  indgale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  materii 
Comprend  du  materiel  suppi^mentaire 


I      I    Quality  of  print  varies/ 

I      I    Includes  supplementary  material/ 


Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  ref limed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  6t6  filmtes  d  nouveau  de  fa^on  d 
obtenir  la  meilieure  image  possible. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film6  au  taux  de  reduction  i.ndiqu^  ci-dessous. 

10X  14X  18X  22X 


26X 


30X 


M 


12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


i^.KMw*«^^^>'*fcw  ■■wiWffiTMrtftaiaiaai'BMf  anwrtteit'titii 


mmwtffiiiriiii^iniiir-- 


.i«.fimriimrir«fiffi|iiiMii|i;ititiWi|iiiia|>|^^ 


■^ 


ails 

du 

idifier 

une 

lage 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

Library  of  Congress 
Photoduplication  Service 

The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


L'exemplaire  film6  fut  reproduit  grdce  d  la 
g6n6rosit6  de: 

Library  of  Congress 
Photoduplication  Service 

Les  images  suivantes  ont  6t6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettet^  de  l'exemplaire  film6,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


Les  exempiaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimis  sont  filmds  en  commenqant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  ajtres  exempiaires 
originaux  sont  film6s  en  commenpant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  •— »>  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  y  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 

Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Un  des  symboies  suivants  apparaftra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbols  — ^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE  ",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  (itc,  peuvent  dtre 
film6s  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diffdrents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clichd,  il  est  filmd  d  partir 
de  Tangle  supdrieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


rata 
) 


elure. 


3 


32X 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

lifM^' 


"--<4'>t«;r>|«fe<*iiS»#f,'i'W.'ii,i;ri,i,i:.,;,  ^'s*!  ^ 


u 


lo. 


lee 


\s-\M. 


EV 


X 


i7  GEOFFREY  MONCTON, 

ice  j:  OR  THE 

FAITHLESS  GUARDIAN 


BV 


SUSANNA 
HOODIE 


NEW^bRK 


JOH/^  •  W-  loVELb  (OMPANY- 

(®J  •  14*  16  VESEY  STREET- 


.'» 


AUTHOR  0» 

"RoncHiNQ  IT  iNTiiK  Bush," 
"  Flora  Lyndsav,"  ' 

Etc.,  Etc  '^     | 


I|li»  lMi|lli||P>llll«PipWIHliiyi.." 

1know  till  "HClomcn  by  these  presents,  that 

while  sundry  nnd  nlmost  cmintloss  imitationa  of  and  Biibstitutes  for 
Enoch  Morgan's  Pdis  Sapolio  arc  offered  by  lanscrupulous  parties, 
who  do  not  hesitate  to  represent  them  as  the  original  article, 

UbiQ  lInt)entUrC  WITNESSETH,  that  there  is  but  one 
Sapolio,  to  wit  ;— tlie  original  article  manufactured  by  the  Enoch 
Morgan's  Sons  Co.,  of  Now  York,  unsurpassed  in  quality,  unexcelled 
in  popularity,  and  widely  known 
not  only  through  its  own  merits, 
but  through  the  many  original 
modes  which  have  been  adopted 
to  introduce  it  to  the  attention  of 
the  public.  Imitation  is  the  sin- 
cerest  flattery.  Cheapness  is  a 
poor  proof  of  quality.  Cheap  im- 
itations are  doubly  doubtful.  The 
most  critical  communities  ai'o  the 
most  liberal  purchasers  of  Sapolio 
which  tlu!y  invariably  find  to  bo 
worth  the  price  they  pay  for  it. 

Ik  WITNE.S3  Whkreop,  we  hereby 
affix  a  great  seal  and  our  cor- 
porate title. 

ENOCH 


A  CLEAR  COMPLEXION ! 

Weat  63d  !«t.,N.Y.,  lady  wrllpn: 

"I  found  Db.  Campbell's  Arsenic 
CcMPLKXiON  Wafers  diii  all  you  guar- 
anteed tlioy  would  do.  1  was  dellcafo 
from  the  effects  of  malaria,  coulil  no;, 
Bleep  or  eat,  and  Had  a  •  WRETCHED 
COMPLEXION  ;'  but  NOW  all  la  chang- 
ed. I  not  only  sleep  and  cat  well,  but 
my  comple-.lon  Is  tlie  envy  and  talk  of 
my  lady  friends.  You  may  refer  tome." 
(Nameaud  address  fiirnlalied  to  ladles.) 
Uy  mall,  60o.  and  $1 ;  samples,  250. 
Harmless.  Prepared  CiNLY  My  .IAS. 
1>.  CAMPREMi,  M.D.,  UdWcst  K'tli 
Street,  New  York. 
Bold  by  Druggists 


FACE,  HANDS,  FEET, 

and  all  their  imperfec- 
tions, including  Facial 
Development,  Hair  and 
Scalp,  Snperfhjou8.Hair, 
f  Birth  Marks,  Moles, 
Warts,  Moth,  Freckles,  Red  Nose, 
Acne,  Black  Heads,  Scars,  Pitting, 
and  tlieir  treatment.  Send  10c. 
for  book  of  50  pages,  4th  edition. 
l)r.  JOHN  H.  WOODHLIIY,  S7 
North  Pearl  St.,  Albany,  N.  Y. 
6  parlors— 3  for  ludies.  Establish- 
ed 1870. 


POND'S 

Tlie  Woniler  of  Healing! 

For  PILES,  BirENS,lTEU. 
BALaiA.  DIABBH(EA, 
rJINaS,  SOHE  THBOAT, 
EYES,  FEET.  INFLAM- 
MATIONS AND  HEMOB- 
l':!IAaES  OF  ALL  EINDS. 

Used  Internally  and  Externally, 

POND'S   EXTRACT  CO., 

70  8th  Aye.|  New  York. 


EXTRACT.' 

CAUTION.— See  that 
the  words  "POND'S 
EXTKACT"  are 
bluivii  111  eacli  bottle, 
iiirlosed  in  a  bnlT-col* 
oreil  wrapper,  bear- 
ing our  I  a  II  due  ape 
trade«inar  k— none 
other  la  Keniilue. 
Sold  everywJiere. 

Price,  SOe.,  $1, 81.75. 
POND'S  EXTRACT   CO., 

76  6ch  Ave.,  New  York. 


t 


?{ 


ESENTS,  That 
cl  substitutes  for 
•upulous  parties, 
article, 

there  is  but  one 
:1  by  the  Enoch 
lality,  unexcelled 


c^^sa. 


i  sows  CO. 

NDS,  FEET, 

all  their  imperfec- 
,  including'  Facial 
ilopment,  Hair  and 
),  Snpertlnon8.Hair, 
k  Marks,  Moles, 
reckles,  Red  Nose, 
luJs,  Scars,  Pitting, 
ment.  Send  10c. 
pages,  4th  edition. 
WOODBL'llY,  S7 
t.,  Albany,  N.  Y. 
ludies.    Establish- 


[TRACT; 

TION.— See  that 
irordB    '<^ POND'S 

KAOT"  are 
I  tn  each  bottle, 
led  ill  a  bnflT-col* 
wrrapper*  bear- 
ar  I  a  11  due  ape 
e  •  m  a  r  k— none 

Is   Keniilue. 
'oM  everywliere. 
,  S0c.,$l.lSl>75. 
S  EXTRACT   CO., 
h  Ave.,  New  York. 


I 


LOVBLL'S  LIBRAR7. 

COMPLETE  CATALOGUE  BY  AUTHORS. 

LovELi/s  LiBBABT  now  oontolns  the  oompleto  wriUnpiof  ino.t  of  the  bert  rtjndiunl 
•nthors,  Buoh  as  Bjokenis  Thackeray,  Eliot,  Carlyle,  BuBkin,  Soott,  Ljtton,  Black,  etc, 

Each  number  is  Isimed  in  neat  19mo  form,  and  the  typo  will  bo  found  larger,  and  Um 
paper  better,  than  In  any  other  cheap  aeries  published. 

JOIUf   IV.    liOVBIili   COJOPAKT, 
1   P.  0.  Box  19W.  14  ••»*  16  V«My  St.,  New  Tork. 


•46    An  Algonquin  Maiden 3U 

BT  MAX  AOEIEB 

895    RaiidomBhotB 20 

83S    Blbow  noom 'M 

BT  OUBTAVE  AIUABD 

SnO  The  Adventurer* 10 

667  The  TrollUunter 10 

673  Pearl  of  the  Andes 10 

1011  Pirates  of  the  Prairies 1 U 

1031  The  Trapper's  Daughter 10 

inaa  The  Tiger  Slayer 10 

1045  Tnipiwrs  of  Arkansas 10 

lur.a  Border  Kifles 10 

10«a  The  Frcubootem 10 

10U9  The  White  Scalper 10 

BT  HB8.  ALDEBDICE 

S46    An  Interc!>ting  Case  30 

BT  UBS.  ALEXAKDEB 

63    The  Wooing  O't,  3  Parta,  each 15 

99    The  Admiral's  Ward 20 

909    The  Executor 80 

849   Valerie's  Fate 10 

664    At  Bay 10 

746    Beaton's  Bargain 30 

777    A  Second  Life  •. 20 

7119    Maid,  Wife,  or  Widow 10 

840    Hy  Woman's  Wit 20 

996    Which  Shall  itBef 20 

BT  F.  AHBTET 

80    VioeVersk;  or,AIieBaontoFathorB..20 

394    The  Giant's  Robe 20 

453    Bla(^k  Poodle,  and  Other  Tales 20 

610    The  Tinted  Tenus 15 

765   A  FuUen  Idol 20 

BT  T.  S.  ABTETTB 

4B6   Woman's  Trials 30 

BU7    The  Two  Wives 15 

MH    Harried  Life 15 

688    The  Ways  of  Providence 15 

kVi    Hoc-9  Scenes 16 

66!    Stories  for  Parenta 15 

663    Seed-Time  and  Harvest 16 

668  Wordsfor  the  Wise 16 

e74  Stories  for  Young  Housekeepers — 16 

bT9    Iiesaons  in  Life    16 

683    Off-Hand  Sketohes 15 

B8S   Tiled  and  Tempted 16 


BT  HANS  CEBISTIAir  ASBEBSEN 

419    Fairy  Tales 80 

BT  EDWnr  ABSOLS 

43B    Tho  Light  of  Asia..... 30 

455    He' ris  of  the  Faith 16 

474    Indian  Song  of  Songs 10 

BT  W.  E.  ATTOUH 

861    Lays  of  tho  Scottish  Cavalier* 30 

BT  ADAM  BABEAV 

756    Conspiracy 25 

BT  BIB  SAHIJEL  BAXEB 

206    Cast  up  by  the  Sea 80 

247    nifle  and  Hound  In  Ceylon 90 

233    Eight  Years'  Wandering  in  Ceylon . .  30 

BT  C.  W.  BALEBTIBB 

881    A  Fair  Device 80 

406    Lifeof  J.O.  Blaine 20 

BT  B.  If .  BALlASTTirB 

215  The  Red  Eric 90 

22«  The  Flro  Brlgiide 20 

239  Erlingthe  Hold 30 

241  Deep  Down 30 

BT  S.  BABXNa-OOTTLD 

878    Little  Tu'penny 10 

BTOEOBttE  HIBDLETON  BATHE 

400    Galaakl 20 

BT  ADOVBT  BEBEL 

713    Woman 80 

BT  UBS.  E.  BEDELL  BEKJAXIH 

748    Our  Roman  Palace 80 

BT  A.  BEHBIKO 

470    Vio IS 

BT  E.  BEBGEB 

901    Charles  Auchester 30 

BT  W.  BEB060B 

77    Pillone IS 

BT  E.  BEBTHET 

866    The  Sergeant's  Legacy 30 

BT  BJOBHSTJEBHE  BJOBNBOH 

3  The  Happy  Boy 10 

4  Arue ^ M 


i; 
1' 
1' 

II 
1' 

II 
II 

V 

II 

31 
31 

SI 
31 

at 

61 

a; 


F 
Iv 
91 
3(1 
44 
l» 
6fi 
&H 
61 
78 
78 
81 
8« 
8« 
87 
87 
87 
67 
8T 
871 
87' 

asi 

88 
88: 
88 
8HI 
bti' 
881 
88! 

m 

80! 
89! 

8» 


T 


luthobs. 

»t  of  the  bent  aUnduM 
tt,  L;tton,  Black,  ato., 

>  fonnd  Uurger,  and  tlM 


•AWT, 
St.,  N«w  Tork. 

ITIAH  ASSEBSEN 

SO 

or  ABSOLS 

jla..... so 

nith 16 

Sunga 10 

3.  ATTOVN 

>ttliih  Cavalten SO 

BE  BABBAV 

, ss 

mnSLBAXZB 

Bea so 

idinOeylon 30 

'aiidering  in  Ce;lon.  .80 

BALEBTIBB 

SO 

laine SO 

ALLASimfB 

SO 

>de 80 

4 SO 

SO 

KINa-OOVLD 

y 10 

3)DLET0N  BATHE 

SO 

UBTBEBEL 

80 

SDELL  BE5JAXIN 

klace SO 

BENBIKO 

IS 

BEBOEB 

!8ter SO 

BEB060B 

16 

BEBTHET 

9  Legacy SO 

EBKE  BJ0BN80H 

>y 10 

If 


LOVELL'S   LIBRARY. 


BT  WALTEB  BE8ANT 

18  They  Were  Murriert 10 

108  r^t  Nothing  Villi  UUmay 10 

SB7  All  111  a  <i«r(lei\  Folr 8(1 

Sfi8  Whim  the  Ship  Comes  Home 10 

884  Dorothy  Pornter JO 

6»«  Self  or  Bcarei 10 

848  The  World  Went  Very  Well  Then  . .  SO 

847  The  Holy  Bore 10 

1008  To  Call  Her  Mine 20 

BT  WILUAM  BLACK 

40  An  Adventure  In  Tbule,  etc 10 

4«  A  PrinuuHHof  Tnule 20 

88  A  Daughter  of  Heth 80 

85  Shaiiilon  Bl-IIb 80 

tt'J  Miicleod  ol  Dare 8(1 

136  Yohiniie  20 

142  Stmiige  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton. .  .80 

140  Whito  Wings 2U 

153  annri(<o,  2  Parts,  each 16 

178  MbiU»p  Violet  'M 

180  Kilmeny 20 

IMS  That  Beautiful  Wretch 80 

184  Qruen  Pnstureii,  eto  2U 

188  In  Silk  Attire 80 

81.3  The  Three  Feathers 20 

SIB  Lady  Silverdalo's  Sweetheart 10 

217  The  Four  MaoMcols 10 

318  Mr.  PiHlHtratus  Brown,  M.P 10 

225  Oliver  OoliUmlth 10 

288  MuHHrch  of  Mincing  Lane 20 

450  Judith  Shiiko«i)caro 21) 

684  Wise  Women  of  Inverness 10 

«T8  Whito  Heather SO 

1*68  BabinaZembra 20 

BT  MISS  U.  E.  BBABSON 

t>8  The  Golden  Calf 2f 

1^4  Lndy  Andley'a  Secret 2(1 

814  Phantom  Fortune 20 

S«0  Under  the  Bed  Flag 10 

444  An  iHhmaelito 20 

fB5  Aurora  Flovd SO 

688  To  the  Bitt'er  End 20 

Bil6  Dead  Sen  Fruit 2C 

e"*  The  .Mistletoe  Bough 20 

76«  Vixen 20 

78'!  The  Octoroon SO 

814  Mohawks 20 

8«8  One  Thing  Ncedhil 20 

8ti'J  Barbara ;  or.  Splendid  Misery 20 

870  John  Marohmoiit'a  Legacy 20 

871  Joshua  Haggard's  Daughter 20 

878  Taken  at  the  Flood  20 

67.3  Asphodel 20 

877  The  Doctor's  Wife    20 

878  Only  a  Clod 20 

879  Sir  Jasper's  Tenant '.'.'.  .80 

880  Lady'hMilo '  SO 

881  Birds  of  Prey 20 

882  Chai-lotto'a  Inheritance .'     .20 

eSi    Rupert  (Jodwin 20 

88«    Strnngcra  and  Pilgrims 20 

8ti7    A  Strange  World 20 

888  Mount  Royal 20 

889  Just  Aa  I  Am 20 

800  Dead  Men's  Shoes 20 

8118  Hoatnges  to  Fortune 20 

808  Penton's  Quest 20 

en  Th«  Cloven  Foot   20 


BT  FBAKX  BABBXTT. 

1000  The  Oreat  Hesper SI 

BT  B.  D.  BLACILMOBE 

881  Lorna  DiHine,  Part  I SD 

881  LoriiH  Dooiic,  Part  II 2(1 

IWti  Maid  of  Cki  r 20 

».')»  Cradock  Nowell,  Part  I SO 

055  Cmdock  Nowell,  Part  II 2U 

001  Springhaien 20 

lO-'lt  Mary  Anerley 2(1 

10;i6  Alice  Lorraine 20 

lO.'iO  Criatowell SU 

l(;:i7  Clar.i  Vaughan 'JO 

10;«i  Cripps  the  Carrier 20 

lU.'lO  Koiiiarkablo  History  of  Sir  Thoiiia» 

Upniore 80 

1U40  Grema ;  or,  My  Fatuer's  Siu 20 

BT  LILLIE  D.  BLAKE 

Woman's  Place  Today 80 

Fettered  for  Life US 


105 
607 


716 


443 


74 

8;(7 


BT  ANNIE  BBABSHAW 

A  Crimson  Stain SU 

BT  CHABLOTTE  BBEMEB 

Life  of  Frodrika  Bremer SO 

BT  CHABLOTTE  BBONTE 

Jnnc  Eyre 90 

Shirley SO 

BT  BHODA  BBOVGHTON 

23  Second  Thoughts SO 

210  Belinda .     80 

781  Betty's  Vialons 15 

811  Dr.  Cupid  2(> 

1022  Oood-Byc,  Sweetheart 211 

1021  Red  aa  a  Rose  U  She 20 

1024  Cometh  up  as  a  Flower >20 

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738  A  Golden  Dawn JJJ 

789  I.-ko  no  Other  Love JO 

740  A  Hitter  Atonement jO 

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601  Romance  of  a  Black  VoU JO 

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804  Wadolin's  Lover w 

800  From  Out  the  Gloom jO 

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808  A  True  Magdalen 20 

809  The  Sin  of  a  Lifetime ft 

810  l-rince  Charlie's  Daughter. JO 

811  A  Golden  H.art JO 

818  Wife  In  Name  Only -W 

816  A  Woman's  Error »J 

8!)6  Marjorlo ™ 

9i2  A  Wilful  Maid  ^ 

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«26  Claribel's  Love  Story SO 

928  Thrown  on  the  World * 

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938  Hilary's  Folly »0 

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909  A  Woman's  War 20 

984 'Twlxt  Smile  and  Tear. 20 

9S6  Lady  Dlnna's  Pride 20 

988  BiUe  of  Lynn ■^O 


988  Marjorle's  Fate. 


20 


989  Sweet  Cyrabellne SO 

1007  Redeemed  by  Love fi 

1018  The  Siiulre'a  Darling JO 

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885  Hiinta  Crlsto  and  Hio  Wife SO 

801  CountcM  of  Munte  Crlnto,  Part  I..  .SO 

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Book 80 


8T  M.  BXTHAMEBWARDI 

908    Disarmed 15 

WW    The  I'lowerof  Doom 10 

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878    Essays SO 

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EDITED  BT  JOHN  MORLEY 

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Durke,  by  John  Hurley 10 

Hums,  by  Principal  Hni>lr|) 10 

tlyrun,  by  PrufeHsur  Niuhiil lU 

Chaucer,  by  Prof.  A.  W.  WonI Ill 

Cowpor,  by  Qolilwiu  Smith lU 

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l'u|ie,  tjy  Lt^Hliu  Uteplicn 10 

Hcutt,  by  11.  II.  Mutton 10 

Bhelley,  by  J.  Hyiiiunils 10 

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SpenMir,  by  the  D«nn  ut  Bt.  Paul's. .  10 
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FRIEDRICH.  BARON  DE  LA 
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Undlno  10 

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Fair  Women  

Once  Again 

My  Lord  and  My  Lady. 
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June 20 

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riay»  and  PoumH .20 

BY  MBS.  OOBE 

The  Dean's  Daughter 90 

BY  JAMES  GBANT 

The  Secret  DoKpatoh 90 

BY  HENBI  GBEVILLE. 

1001  Frunkley go 

BY  CECIL  OBIFHTH 

Victory  Deano 

BY  ABTHUB  GRIFFITHS 

No.  09 

THE  BB0THEB8  GBIVM 

Fairy  Tales,  IlluBtrated 20 


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BY  LIEUT.  J.  W.  GUNNISON 

History  of  tho  Mormons 16 

BY  EBNST  HAECKEL 

India  and  Ceylon 20 

BY  MABION  HABLAND 

HousekeepLiR  and  llomeraaklng.. .  .18 


BY  F.  W.  RACXLANDXB 

606    Forbidden  Fruit 90 

BY  H.  BIOEB  HAGGABD 

RM  King  Solomon  >  MInea  ...  ga 

MS  She Sj 

870  Tho  Wltoh'i  lliml '.l.'.'i.'.'.'i.'.'.'sO 

1100  Jess 20 

941  Dawn ,,, jjO 

lOHO  Allan  Quatormaln '."..'.'.'.'.'.'.SQ\ 

BY  A.  EOMONT  HAKE  ' 

The  Story  of  Chinese  Ooidou SO 

BY  LUDOVIC  HALEVY 

L'Abbu  Oonstaniln 90 

BY  THOMAS  HABDY 

Two  on  a  Tower JQ 

Huinantlo   Adventuroa   of   a  MJlk. 

maid lO 

Tho  Mayor  of  Caslerbrldgo. ....!'."  20 

Thu  Woodliinders ]   'jjO 

Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd ...!!!  90 

BY  JOHN  HABBISON  AND  M. 
COMPTON 

Over  the  Bunmier  Sea 90 

BY  J.  B.  HABWOOD 

One  False,  both  Fair 90 

BY  JOSEPH  HATTON 

Olytlo  20 

Cruel  London jy 

BY  NATHANIEL  HAWTHOBNE 

870    Twice  Told  Talca...  20 

370    Urandfather'a  Chair !."!.'.!'.! IsO 

BY  MARY  CECIL  HAY 

Under  tho  Will 10 

Tho  Arundel  Motto ."..".  . '  "90 

Old  Myddleton's  Money,  90 

A  Wicked  airl ;.;;.;  10 

Nora's  Lovn  Teat 90 

The  Squire's  Leeacy '.'.'.'.".. "..!!20 

Dorothy's  Venture 8U 

My  First  Offer [  jy 

Back  to  the  Old  Homo 10 

For  Her  Dear  Sake ...^ 

Hidden  Per'ls \[ 'go 

Victor  and  Vanquished !!.... !90 

BY  MRS.  FELICIA  HEMANS 

883    Poems go 

BY  DAVIl  J.  HILL,  LL.D. 

633    Principles  and  Fallacies  of  Borial- 

lam la 

BY  M.  L.  HOLBBOOK,  M.D. 

366    Hygleneof  thu  Brala 2S 

BY  MBS.  M.  A.  HOLMES 

709    Woman  ni^amst  Woman 20 

743    A  Woman's  Vongoinioe .'  .90 

BY  FAXTON  HOOD 

73    Life  of  Cromwell 15 

BY  THOMAS  HOOD 

811    Poema 8| 


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BY  BOBBY  AND  WBEM8 

Life  of  Marion ■ * 

BY  BOBERT  EOUDIN 

The  TriokB  of  the  Greeks  ..  .« 20 

BY  ADAH  M.  HOWABD 

AgaliiBl  Her  Will 90 

The  OhUd  Wife 10 

BY  EDWABD  HO'VLAND 

Social  Solutioua, 


,  I'art  I 
Part  It... 
PartUI... 
Part  IV.... 

PartV 

Part  VI.. 
Part  VII  . 
Part  VIII . 
Part  IX... 
PartX.... 
Part  XI  .. 
Part  XII., 


.30 


BY  UABIB  F.OWLAND 

Papa'a  Own  Oitl 

BY  JOHN  W.  HOYT,  Ll.D. 

Btudles  in  Civil  Sorvloo 15 

BY  THOKAS  HUQU'iS 

Tom  Brown's  Sohcjl  Days 20 

Tom  Brown  at  Oxford,  2  I'arts,eaoh.l5 

BY  PEOF.  HTIXIEY 

Life  of  Hume 1" 

BY  STANLEY  HUNTLEY 

The  Spoopcndjke  Papers 80 

BY  VICTOR  HUGO 

Les  M^Borablea,  Parti 90 


Part  It  . 
Part  III. 


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BY  R.  H.  HUTTON 

Lifu  of  Scott 9" 

BY  WASHIHOTOH  IRVIHO 

The  Sketch  Book 20 

Tales  of  a  Traveller M 

Life    and    VoyaRes    of    Columbus, 

Parti VA-.--:." 

Life   and   Voyages   of   Columbus, 

Part  II •••••• 90 

Abbotsford  and  Newstead  Abbey . .  .10 
Kniokerljocker  History  of  New  Vork.*) 

The  Crayon  Papers 20 

The  Alhiimbra 1» 

Conquest  of  Qranada f> 

Conquest  of  Spain l'' 

Braoebridge  HaU 90 

Salmagundi  jj* 

Astoria.  ^ 

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A  Tuur  on  the  Prairies 


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Oliver  aoldsmith 20 

Captain  ilonnoville 2U 

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BT  SAMUEL  JOHHSOH 

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BT  MAURICE  JOKAI 

A  Modern  Miilaa 20 

BY  JOHN  KEATS 

PoeTiss 26 

BY  EDWARD  KELLOQO 

Labor  and  Capitid 

BY  GRACE  KENNEDY 

Dunalian,  2  Parts,  each 15 

BY  JOHN  P.  KENNEDY 

Horsa  Shoe  Robinson,  S  Parts,  each  .15 

BY  CHARLES  KINQSLBY 

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HyiMitia,  3  Parts,  each 

BY  HENRY  KINOBLSY 

Austin  Eliot 20 

The  Hlllyars  and  Burtons «{ 

LeightonOourt ^ 

Gcjarey  Hamlyn  *• 

BY  W.  H.  0.  KINGSTON 

Peter  the  Whaler 30 

Mark  Seaworth * 

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The  Young  Foresters ») 

Saltwater ^W 

The  Midshipman *« 

BY  F.  KIRBY 

The  Golden  Dog *- 

BYA.LAPOINTE 

The  Rival  Doctors 20 

BT  MISS  MARGARET  LEE 

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A  Brighton  Night 20 

Dr.  Wilmer's  Love 25 

Lorimer  and  Wife 20 

BT  VERNON  LEE 

A  Phantom  Lover 10 

Prince  of  the  Hundred  Soups 10 

BT  JULES  LERMINA 

TheOhase 20 

BT  CHARLES  LEVER 

Harry  Lorreqner. 20 

Charles  O'Malley.  3  Parts,  each.      .30 
Tom  Burke  of  Ours,  3  Parts,  each.. 30 

BT  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW 

Hyperion 90 

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927    FuroQold 20 

BT  HENBT  W.  LUCY 

Qidccn  Fleyce 20 

BT  HENBT  C.  LUXEHS 

Jets  and  Flashes 80 

BT  EDNA  LTALL 

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BT  E.  LTNN  LTNTON 

lone  Stewart SO 

BT  LOBD  LTIION 

The  Coming  Iluce 10 

Lelia 10 

Ernest  Maltravcrs    ....'■10 

The  Haunted  Houae 10 

Alice:   A  Sequel  to  Ernest  Maltra- 

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Last  Days  of  Pompeii 20 

Zanonl 20 

Night  and  Morning,  8  Parts,  each. .  15 

Paul  Clifford SO 

Lady  of  Lyons 10 

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Eugene  Aram 20 

Tho  Disowned SO 

Kenelm  Chillmgly 20 

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The  Caxtons,  2  Parts,  each 15 

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LaHt  of  the  Barons.  2  Ports,  each ...  15 

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Harold,  2  Parts,  each 16 

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BT  £.  KABUTT 

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102»  Gold  Elsie !«) 

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BTHABBIET  UABTINEAV 

863    Tales  of  the  French  Bevolutior  ...  .15 

Loom  and  Lugger 20 

Bfrkeley  the  Banker 80 

Hemes  Abroad 15 

Frr  Each  and  For  All 15 

'.ill  and  Valley  16 

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904  A  Lucky  DiHuppointment 10 

905  Her  Lord  and  Master 20 

906  My  Own  Child »0 

907  No  Intentions 2.j 

908  Written  in  Fire 20 

909  A  Little  Stepson 10 

910  With  Cupid's  Eyes 20 

9.11  Why  Not? so 

907  My  Sister  the  Actrfss 20 

988  Captain  Norton's  Diaiy 10 

939  Oirls  of  Feversbiim 20 

940  The  Root  of  all  Evil iiO 

9i2  Facing  the  Footlights 20 

94:j  Pctronel 20 

944  A  Star  and  a  Hoort ..10 

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9  JO  A  Harvest  of  Wild  Oato 20 

947  The  Poison  of  A'ps 10 

948  Fnir-Haired  Alda SO 

919  The  Heir  Pnsnmptive 20 

960  Under  the  Lilies  and  :io.s08 SO 

9j4  Heart  of  Jane  Wiirner. 20 

'.n9.  Love's  Conflict,  Pnrt  1 20 

9S8  Love's  Coaflict,  Port  II 20 

951  Phyllida 20 

!154  Out  uf  His  Reckoning. 10 

979  Her  World  against  a  Lie 20 

990  OpenSeHame 20 

991  Mad  Dumarewi 30 

999    Fighting  the  Air    £0 

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1046  Oomin'  Thro'  the  Rye 20 

1047  Sam'H  Swcethciirt 20 

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1049  Cherry  Rijio 20 

1060  My  Lady  Greou  Sleeves 20 

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BT  JUSTIN  HcCABTHT,  H.P. 

873    MaldofAthcns 80 

BT  T.  I.  UEAOE 

828    How  It  All  Came  Roi' ml 20 

BT  OWEN  MLBEDITH 

831    Luclle 20 

BT  JOHN  HILTON 

889    ParadiscLoBt 20 

BT  WILLIAU  UINTO 

877    Lifeof  Defoe 10 

BT  MBS.  HOLEBWOBTH 

1008  Marrying  and  Giving  in  Marriage..  10 

BT  THOMAS  MOOBB 

416    Lalla  Rookh 90 

487    Poems 40 

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813    OoldenQirls 20 

BT  LOUISA  KITKLBACH 

1000  Frederick  the  Great  aiid  hie  Uaurt.  .80 

1014  The  Daughter  of  an  Binpreaa 80 

loas  Goethe  and  Schiller 80 

BTUAXHULLEa 

130    India :  What  Can  It  Teach  Us  ? ....  30 

BT  DAVIS  OHBIBTIE  HITBBAT 

197    By  the  Gate  of  the  Uca 15 

788    Cynlo  Fortune 10 

BT  F.  KTEBS 

410    Lite  of  Wordsworth 10 

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88    John  Halifax ^. SO 

43B    MisR  Tommy 15 

751    King  Arthur SO 

BT  FLOBEKCE  HEELT 

804    Band-Book  for  the  Kitchen SO 

BT  KEY.  E.  F.  NEWTDN 

83    Bight  and  Wrong  Uses  of  the  Bible . .  SO 

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439    Noctcs  A 'nbroaianiB 80 

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176  BirTom 20 

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868  OldLadyMary 10 

603  Oliver's  Bride    10 

717  A  Country  QentJeman 20 

831  The  Son  of  his  Father 20 

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»26  A  Poor  Qontleman 20 

994  Lnoy  Orofton 10 

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137    Under  Two  Flags,  3  Part^  each.... 20 

887    Princess  Naprsxine 35 

675    ARalny  June 10 

763    Moths ..20 

790    Othmar 30 

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669    Luck  of  the  Oarrells 20 

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1015  Pemberton 80 

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439    Gold  Bug,  and  Other  Tales 15 

488    The  Aiodgnatlon,  and  Other  Tales. .15 
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A  Periloua  Secret 80 

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Griffith  Gaunt   20 

A  Terrible  Temptation SO 

Very  Hard  Cash 20 

ItisNevci  Too  Lato  to  Mend 20 

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411    Children  of  the  Abbey 30 

BT  BLANCHE  BOOSEVELT 

837    Marked  "In  Haste" 30 

BT  DANIE  B088ETTI 

320    Poems ; SO 

BT  MBS.  BOWSON 

369    Charlotte  Templa 10 

BT  JOHN  BUSKIN 

ScMtme  and  Lilies 

Crown  of  Wild  Olives 

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Modern  Painters,  Vol.  1 20 

Vol.  II 20 

"  "       Vol.  Ill 20 

"  "       Vol.  IV 25 

"'  "       Vol.  V 26 

King  of  the  Golden  Biver 10 

Unto  this  Laiit 10 

Munera  Tnlveris 15 

"A  Joy  Forever" 16 

The  t'lcaourcs  of  England 10 

The  T*o  Paths 20 

Lectures  on  Art 16 

Arntra  Pentelici 15 

Time  and  Tide 15 

Mornings  in  Floienca 16 

St.  Marie's  Best 16 

Deucalion 15 

Art  of  l!;iigland 16 

Eagle's  Nest    15 

' '  Onr  Fathers  Have  Told  TJs  " 15 

Proserpina 15 

Val  d'Arno 15 

Love's  Meinie 15 

Fors  Ciavigera,  Part  1 3U 

•'         Partit .30 

"  "         Part  III 30 

"  "         PartlV 30 

BT  W.  CLABK  RUSSELL 

A  Sen  Qneen 20 

John  Holdsworth 80 

A  Voyage  to  the  Cape SO 

J»rk'«  Courtsliip 30 

A  Sailor's  Bweethnart 20 

On  the  Fo'k'Bic  Head 20 

The  Ookieu  Hope 20 


BT  DOBA  BUSSELL 

8I«    The  Broken  Real 80 

BT  OEOBOE  SAND 

1.%    The  Tower  of  Peroemont 20 

966    The  Lilit  s  of  Florence 20 

BT  MBS.  W.  A.  8AVILLE 

9?    Boeittl  Etiquette 15 

BT  3.  X.  B.  SAINTINB 

WO    Pioclola .10 


BT  J.  C.  F.  VON  8CHILLEB 

841    Sohiiler's  Poems 81 

BT  MIOHABL  SGOTT 

171    Tom  Cringle's  Log SO 

BT  SIB  WALTEB  800TT 

145  Ivanhoe,  3  Parts,  each 15 

35U  Lidy  of  the  Lake,  with  Notes 20 

489  Bride  of  Lammermoor 2( 

490  Block  Dwarf    10 

40'J  Caaile  Dangerous IS 

498  Legend  of  Montrose 15 

495    The  Surgeon's  Daughter 10 

499  Heart  of  Mid-Lothlan 30 

608  Wiiverley 20 

604  FortunOH  of  Nigel 20 

609  Peverllof  the  Peak 30 

615  The  Pirate 20 

538  Poetical  Works 40 

644  Ilodganntlet "iS 

561  Woodhtock 20 

557  Count  Robert  of  Paris 20 

r89  TheAbbot 90 

675  Quentin  Durward .20 

581  The  Talisman 20 

586  St  Ronans  Well 20 

69^  Anno  of  Qeierstuin 90 

605  Aunt  Margaret's  Mirror 10 

667  ChroniuIcH  of  the  Cnnongate 15 

609  TheMonaHtery 20 

620  OnyMnnnering 20 

«!«  Kenllworth  25 

619  ThoAntiqUu.,  20 

633  Bob  Roy 20 

835  The  Betrothed 20 

6.3fl  Fair  Maid  of  Perth 80 

641  OldMortality 80 

BT  EVOENE  SCBIBE 

28    Flsuretta 20 

BT  PRINaPAL  8HAIRP 

334    Life  of  Bums IC 

BT  HART  W.  SHELLET 

6    Frankenstein 10 

BT  PEBCT  BTSSHE  SHELLET 

649    Complete  Poetical  Works 80 

BT  S.  SHELLET 

191    The  Nautai  Family 90 

BT  WILLIAH  OIUCORE  SUtMS 

640 
618 
6.53 
657 
663 
671 
674 
677 
680 
684 
687 
600 
693 
li»7 
702 
7a'3 
706 


The  Partisan 30 

Melllchampe 30 

The  Yemassee SO 

Ktttherine  Walton 30 

SouthwarrtHol 80 

The  Si-out 80 

The  Wigwam  and  Cabin 30 

Vascunselos SO 

Confession SO 

Woodcraft 80 

Richard  Uiirdis .80 

Guy  Rivers 80 

Border  Beagles SO 

-^ho  Forayers 80 

(Jharlemont ."iO 

Eutaw .10 

Beauchsmp* 36 


10 


LOVELli'S  LI6EABT. 


126 
S13 
934 
780 
436 
B94 
110 

es 

848 
449 


896 

401 


461 


.10 


.10 


ao 


BT 


446 


.10 


BT  J.  H.  SHOBTHOVSE 

BlrPeroival 

BT  J.  P.  SIMPSON 
Uanntad  Henrta  

BT  EDITH  BIKCOX 

Men,  Women,  and  LoverB 

BT  A.  P.  SIHNETT 

Karina 90 

BT  HAVLET  SMABT 

Baa  to  Beat W 

BT  SAWJEL  8HXLEB 

Self-Help 9B 

BT  A.  SMITH 

A  Summer  in  Skye 80 

BT  QOLDWIN  SMITH 

Fnlso  Hopes IB 

Life  of  Cowiwr    10 

BT  J.  GBEGOBT  SMITH 

Sclma IB 

BT  S.  M.  SMVCKEB 

Life  of  WebBtcr,  2  Parts,  each IB 

BT  F.  SFIELHAOEN 

Quitlana  20 

BT  LESLIE  STEPHEK 

LifeofPopo 10 

Lif«  of  Jobnaon 

BT  STABKWEATHEB  AND 
WILSON 

Socialism W 

BT  STEPNIAH 

173    Underground  Buisla 90 

BT  BOBEBT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

767    Kidnappetl •:v.*' 

708    Stranifo  Caao  of  Dr.  JekfU  and  Mr. 

Hyde 10 

Prince  Otto IP.    133 

The  Dynamiter SO 

New  Arabian  Nights SO 

Treninire  Island 20 

The  Merry  Men 20 

BT  HESBA  STBETTON 

In  Prison  and  Out SO 

BT  EUGENE  SUE 

Hysteries  of  Paris,  2  Part",  each  . .  .20 
The  Wandering  Jew,  2  Parts,  eaoh  .20 

BT  DEAN  SWIFT 

68    OnUlvei's  Travels 20 

BT  CHAS.  ALGEBNOV  SWIN- 
BUBNE. 

412    Poems 20 

BT  J.  A.  8TM0ND8 

861    Life  of  Shelley 10 

BT  H.  A.  TAINE 

443    Taice'H  EiigUeh  Litentuia 40 


NIKOLAI   O^JCHEBHUIBS' 

1017  AVltal  Qnertion » 

BT  LOBD  TSNNT80N 

jPoems «! 

BT  W.  M.  THAOXEBAT 

Henry  Esmond SO 

Denis  Dnval SO 

Catherine JO 

Ixjvol,  the  Widower 10 

Barry  Lyndon SO 

Vanity  Fair •■•*|0 

History  of  PendennlH,  8  Parts,  each..20 

The  Newoome^  2  Parte,  each 20 

Book  of  Snobs 10 

Paris  SIcetohcf)  •  •  •  jO 

AdvonturesofPhll!p,aParts,each    15 

The  ViiKlnians,  a  Parts,  eauh 20 

Critical  Reviews,  etc JO 

Eastern  Sketches 10 

Fatiil  Uoots,  etc .^- JO 

The  Four  Georges JO 

Fitzboodle  Papers,  etc 10 

Boundubout  Papers SO 

A  I«|tend  of  the  Rhine,  eto JO 

Cox's  Diary,  eto 


141 
143 
148 
15B 
1B4 
173 
11« 
311 
820 
229 
3.15 

■j:<8 

2S2 
250 
2*13 
264 
380 
383 
385 
3U6 

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29K 
300 
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320 


31 


769 
770 
79S 
819 
921 


V39 


77» 
776 


S51 

344 
867 


896 


468 


640 


386 


Irish  Sketches,  eto 20 

Men's  Wives JO 

Novels  by  Eminent  Hands 10 

Character  Skotohea,  eto  10 

Christmaa  Books 20 

Ballads JJ 

Yellowplnsh  Papers  JO 

Sketches  and  Travels  In  London  • .  ■  ■  JO 

English  Humorists JO 

Great  Hoggarty  Diamond JC 

The  Rose  and  the  Ring 10 

BT  JUDGE  D.  P.  THOMPSON 

The  Green  Mountain  Boys 20 

BT  THEODOBX  TILTON 

Tempest  Tossed,  Part  1 2ft 

Tempest  Tossed,  Part  II 20 

BT  ANTHONT  TEOLLOPE 

Mr.  Scarborough's  Family,  3  Parts, 

each     l" 

Autobiography  of  Anthony  TroUope.'^ 

Life  of  Thackeray J'' 

An  Old  Man's  Love '<* 

BT  P.  A.  TUPPER 

Moonshine *• 

BT  J.  VAN  LEHNEP 
The  Count  of  Talavera SO 

BT  VIBGIL 

Poema   *" 

BT  JULES  VEBNE 

800  Leagues  on  the  Araason 10 

The  Cryptogram  .•••••  —  — S 

Tour  of  the  World  In  EiKhty  Days.  20 
80,000  Leagues  tinder  the  Sea  . .  .80 
The  Mysterious  Island,  3  Parts,  each.M 

BT  QUEEN  VICTOBIA 

Mora  Leaves  from  a  Life  In  the  High- 
lands      » 


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7B' 
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981 


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a.   TCHEBNUnE' 

ion 8> 

I  txunyson 

40 

THAOXEBAY 

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20 

10 

lower 10 

20 

30 

idennlR,  2  Fitrts,  eacb..20 

s,  S  Psita,  cacb 20 

.   ...7 10 

iV. 20 

Fhll!  p,  9  Parta,  each    1 5 

»,  9  Parta,  each 90 

W9,  eta 10 

hSi W 

to -10 

rge. 10 

pe".eto 10 

'apera «" 

be  Rhine,  «to 10 

ito 10 

8,  etc 20 

;. 10 

inrnt  Handa 10 

stohea,  eto  10 

^-:.::.::::::::::.?S 

Papers  10 

Travels  In  London 10 

oriPta 15 

rty  Diamond IC 

I  the  Blng 10 

D.  P.  THOHFSOH 

oonUln  Boys 90 

DOBS  TILTON 

icd.PartI 26 

icd.Partll 20 

OKT  TBOILOFE 

ugb's  Family,  2  Partu, 

15 

ly  of  Anthony  TroUopc.90 

cemy j'' 

g  Love 1" 

A.  TVFPER 

20 

rAN  LEHNEP 

[  Talavera 90 

VIBQIL 
25 

I,ES  VEBNE 

on  the  Amazon 10 

mm 10 

World  In  EiKhty  Daye.  .20 
len  Under  the  8ea  ..  .20 
ins  Uand,  8  Parts,  each.M 

ijiN  VICTOBIA 

1  from  a  Life  in  the  Hlgb- 


18 


413 


7B7 
S80 
SUl 
969 


BT  Xu  B.  WAIFOBD. 

10S8  Mr.  Smith.... .?0 

]0B«  The  History  of  n  Week 10 

1067   The  Baby's  Grandmother ••••*? 

1058  Tronbloeome  Daughter 20 

105«  Cousins 9'J 

BT  OEOBOE  WALKER 

The  Three  Bi»inlards 20 

BV  PBOF.  A.  W.  WABD 

Life  of  Ohauocr 10 

BT  P.  WABDEB 

Doris'  Fortune 10 

At  the  World's  Morcy 10 

The  House  on  the  Uarsli 20 

Deldeo 80 

A  Prince  of  Darkness M 

BT  SAMTTEL  WABBEN 

Ten  Thousand  a  Tear,  Part  T 20 

"  "       Partll 20 

"  "  "       Partni....20 

BT  DESELEB  WELCH 

Ufe  of  Orover  Cleveland 80 

BTE.  WEBHEB 

At  a  High  Price 90 

VIneta »• 

BT  MBS.  HEHBT  WOOD 

EastLynne 90 

The  Mystery 20 

BT  MES.  WHITCHEB 

Widow  Bodott  Papers SO 

BT  3.  a.  WHITIIER 

Poems 90 

BT  VIOLET  WETTB 

Her  Johnnie 90 

BT  W.  K.  WILLIAMS 

Bcience  in  Short  Chapters . .  .90 


SB9 


BT  N.  P.  WILLIS 

Faemi 


tit 


614 
734 


64 
809 


104 


4B0 


S63 


ex 


80 


BT  0.  P.  WmOATE 

Twilight  Club  TraoU 20 

BT  EDMUND  TAXES 

723  Running  the  Osnntlet 20 

724  Broken  to  Harness 20 

BT  CHABLOTTE  M.  TONOE 

8S8    A  Modem  Telemachus  £0 

HOO    LovoaodLife 20 

BT  ERNEST  A.  TOVNO         I 

Ofifl    Barbara's  Rival 20 

091    A  Woman's  Honor SO 

MISCELLANEOUS 

26  Life  of  Washington 20 

87  Paul  and  Virginia. 10 

47  Bnron  Munchausen 10 

68  The  Vendetta,  by  llalzao    20 

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72  Queen  of  the  Odunty 20 

98  The  Gypsy  Qncon 20 

118  A  New  Lease  of  Life 20 

]6»  Beyond  the  8unrl.se 20 

181  Whist,  or  Bumblepuppy  ? 10 

860  Modern     Christianity    a    Civilized 

Heathenism 15 

266  Plutarch's  Lives,  5  Parts,  each 20 

991  Famous  Fui.ny  Fellows 30 

328  Life  of  PanlJones 20 

SSri  Evcry-n»y  Cook-B^iok. 20 

840  Clayton's  Ranvers. 20 

885  SwlKS  Family  Robinson 20 

886  Chi Idhooil  of  the  World 10 

897  Arabian  Nights' Entertainments 25 

402  How  He  Reached  the  White  House. 25 

483  Wrecks  in  the  Sea  of  Life 20 

484  Typhaines  Abbey 25 

488  The  Child  Hunters 15 

857  A  Wilful  Young  Woman 20 

966  The  Story  of  Our  Mesa 20 

967  The  Three  Bummers iJO 

1019  Soeur  Louise 20 


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l^A-TEHT       ISSUES. 


•80  At  the  World's  Mercy.  P.  Warden  .10  i 
«81  Tbe  House  on  tbo  Marsh,  by  F. 

Warden 20 

S8S  Deldee.  by  F.  Warden  «i» 

883  A  Prince  of  Darkness,  by  Warden.. 20 
984  'Twlxt  Smile  and  Tear,  by  Ulay...20 
935  I,ady  Diana's  FrlUc,  by  B.  JI.  Clay.  .20 
BS6  llelle  of  Lyun,  by  BertUa  M.  Clay..  .20 
»ST  KomanceofaPoorVoungMan,  by 

Ootave  Feulllet  10 

9R8  Marjorle'4  Fate,  by  Bertha  M.  Clay.  ?o 
989  Sweet  CymbeUne,  by  B.  M.  Clay . .  .20 
930  Upon  Sesame,  by  Florence  Marryat  20 

991  Mad  Damareaq,  by  F.  Marryat — 20 

992  Camllie,  by  Alexandre  Dumas,  Jr.. 10 

993  The  CUlld  Wife,  by  A.  M.  Howard.  10 

994  Lnoy  Crolton,  by  Mrs.  Ollpliant....l0 
S9S  Wliloli  Sliall  Jt  Be  ?  by  Mrs.  Alex- 
ander ...  «0 

99<  The  Qneen  of  Hearts,  by  Collins. . .  20 
91W  The  Oolden  Hope,  by  W.  C.  KasseU.20 

998  Beau  Tancrede,  by  Alex.  Dumas  20 

999  Fighting  the  Air.  by  F.  Marryat.  .20 

1000  Fredenck  the  Ureal  and  his  Court, 

by  Louisa  Milhlbach no 

1001  Frankloy,  by  Henri  Orevllle 20 

1009  To  Call  Her  Slliie,  by  W.  Be8ant.20 
lOOS  The  Haunted  Hotel,  by  W.  CoUlns.lO 

1004  This  Man's  Wife,  by  Q.  M.  Fenn. .  20 

1005  Next  of  Kin  Wanted,  by  M.  Beth- 

am-Edwarda. 20 

lOOC  A  Dauprhter  of  the  People,  by 

Georglana  M.  Cralk 20 

lOOT  Bcdeemed  by  Love,  by  B.  M.  Clay.20 

1008  Marrying  and  Giving  In  Marriage, 

by  Mrs.  Molesworth 10 

1009  The  Oreat  Hesiwr,  by  F.  Barrett..20 

1010  Mrs.  Gregory,  by  Agnea  Bay 20 

1011  Pirateaofthe  Prairies,  by  Afmard.lO 

1012  The  Squire's  Darling,  by  Clay...  10 
1018  The  Mystery  of  Colde  Fell,  by  caay.20 
1014  The  Daughter  of  an  Empress,  by 

Louisa  MUhlbach 80 

WIS  Pemberton.  by  Henry  Peterson... 30 
1016  Taraa  Bulba,  by  Nikolai  V.  Gogol..20 
lOlT  A  Vital  Oaestlon.  by  Nikolai  G. 

TohcrnuIahevBky 30 

1018  The  Condemned  Door,  by  F.  du 

Bolsgpbey 20 

1019  Soeur  Louise  (Louise  aeBnmeval)20 

1020  Allan  Quatermaln,  by  Haggard. .  .20 

1021  The     Trapper's    Daughter,    by 

Gustave  Almard 10 

1022  Good-Bye,  Sweetheart,  by  Rhoda 

Broughton  20 

1023  Bed  as  a  Rose  la  She,  by  Bhoda 

Broughton 20 

1024  Cometh  up  as  a  Flower,  by  Khoda 

Broughton 20 

IMS  Not   Wisely,   But  Too  Well,  by 
Khoda  Broughton 20 


1020  Nancy,  by  Bhoda  Bronghton 20 

1U2I  Joan,  by  Khoda  Biongbton SO 

1028  A  Near  Kolatloii,  liy  Coleridge 20 

li;29  UrenUa  Vorke,  by  Mary  Cecil  Hay  10 
108O  On  Her  Wedding  Morn,  by  Clay..  10 
1031  'I'hc  Shattered  idol,  by  B.  M.  Clay.  10 
10.12  The  Tiger  Slayer,  by  G.  Almard. .10 
10B3  U'tty  Leigh,  by  Bertha  M.  Clay...  10 

1034  Mary  Anerley.by  It.  D.  Bl»ckmore.20  • 

1035  Alice  Lorraine,  by  Blackinore...  20 
1086  Chrlstowell,  byR.  D.  Blackmore  .20 
103T  Clara  VauRhan,  by  Blackmore.... 20 
1038  Crlpps  the  Carrier,  by  Blacltmore.20 
1H89  RemarkableHl8toryof,SlrThoma» 

Upmore,  by  H.  D.  Blackmore  ..  20 

1040  Erema;  or,  My  Father's  Sin.    ly 

K.  D.  Blackmore ■■. 20 

1041  Tne  Mystery  of  the  HoUy  Tree,  by 

BcrthaM.C1ay  ...10 

1049  The  Eairs  Error,  by  B.  M.  Clay.  .10 
7048  Arnolds  Promise,  by  B.  M.  clay..l0 

1044  ForglngtheFetters.by  Alexander.lO 

1045  The  Trappers  of  Arkansas,  by 

Gustave  Almard 10 

1046  Comln'  thro'  the  Rye.  by  Mather8.20 
104T  Sam's  Sweetheart,  by  Mathers....!© 

1048  Story  of  a  Bin,  by  H.  B.  Mather8..20 

1049  Cherry  Elpe,  by  H.  B  Mathers.  .20 

1060  My  Lady  Green  Sleeves,  by  Math- 

ers  SO 

1061  An  Unnatural  Bondage,  by  Clay. .  10 
1052  Border  Rifles,  by  Gustave  \lmard.lO 

1058  Gold  Elale,  by  E.  M»rlitl 20 

1064  Goethe  and  Schiller,  by  Mllhlbach.SO 
10.55  Mr.  Smith,  by  L.  B.  Walford. ...  .20 

1050  The Hlstorynf  a Week,by Waltord.lO 
105T  The  Baby's  Graadmc  ther,  by  Wal- 
ford   SO 

1058  Tronblesomo  Daughters,  by  Wal- 

ford  20 

1059  Cousins,  by  L.  B.  Walford 20 

1060  The  Bag  cl  Dlamor-da.  by  Fenn .  20 

1061  Red  Spider,  by  8.  Baring-Gould.  20 

1062  Dick's  Wandering,  by  J.  8turKls..20 
1068  The  Freebooters,  by  G.  Almard. . .10 

1064  The  Dnfce'u  Secret,  by  B.  M.  Clay.20 
1006  A  Modem  Circe,  t  y  The  Duchess  20 
1066  An  American  Journey,by  Avellng.30 
106T  Geoffrey  Moncton.  by  8.  MoodlcSO 
10S8  Flora  Lyndsay,  by  8.  Moodle 20 

1065  The  White  Scalper,  by  G.  Almard.  10 
lOTO  Confessions  of  an  English  Opium 

Eater,  by  Thomas  de  Qulncey . .  20 
lOTl  Guide  of  the  Desert,  by  Almard.  .10 

Prom  Advance  Sheets: 
10T2  "  The  Duchess,"  by  The  Dnoheas.ao 

10T8  Scheherazade,  by  l^  Warden 'iO 

10T4  RouRhlng  It  In  the  Bust,  by  Su- 

eanna  Moodle 20 

10T6  The  Insurgent  Chief,  by  Almard..  10 


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laBrongliton to 

i  BiouKbton 80 

II,  liyCulciidge 80 

iiy  Mar;  Cecil  Ha;  10 
lU  Morn,  by  Ola;..  10 
laol,  byB.M.  Clay  10 
er,  by  ().  Aiinartl..lO 

BertUa  M.Clay...  10 
y  K  U  Blackinore.20 
.  by  Blackinore...  20 
B.  1>.  BlacKmore  .80 
,  by  Blaekniore.. ..20 
•ter,  by  Blackmore.ao 
atoryof  HlrThomRii 
t.  D.  Blackmore.  .20 
r  Father's  Bin,    ly 

)ro 20 

:  the  Holly  Tree,  by 

y  10 

jr.  by  B.  M.  Clay.lO 
IBC,  by  B.  M.  I  lay..lO 
Cters.by  Alexander.lO 

of  Arkansas,  by 

ird 10 

le  Uye,  by  Hatbere.20 
art,  by  MatUers,...SO 
by  H.  B.  Hatber8..20 
y  H.  B.  Mathers.  .20 
1  Sleeves,  by  Uath- 

20 

Bondage, by  Clay..  10 
>y  OuBtave  ^.Imard.lO 

E.  Worliti 20 

ilUur.i/yMUhlbach.so 
I..  B.  walford. . .    .20 
aWeek.byWaJford.lO 
mdmc  ther,  by  Wal- 
20 

daughters.  byWa\- 

20 

B.  Walford 20 

amor.d<i.  by  Fenn .  20 
jS.  Barlng-Qonld.  20 
rtng.  by  J.  8tnrKlB..20 
rs.by  G.  Almard...lO 
oret.  by  B.M.Clay.  20 
e.  ly  The  Dnchesa  20 
lonrney.by  Avellng.30 
ton.  by  S.  Moodle..SO 

■,  by  8.  Moodle 20 

;lper.  by  G.  Almard.lO 
an  English  opium 
imas  deQulncey..  20 
tesert,  by  Almard.  .10 
^rw4}  Sheets : 
,"  by  The  Dnoheas.ao 

by  l^  Warden iu 

I  the  Bust,  by  8u- 

! 20 

Chief,  byAtmard..lO 


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& 


V  at!  dost  thou  think  111  bend  to  theef 
.  he  free  in  soul  are  ever  free ; 

Nor  force,  nor  poverty  can  bind 
The  subtle  will— the  thinking  mind. 


NEW   YORK 
JOHN  W.  LOVELL  COMPANY 

14  AND  i6  Vf.skv  Ptsket 


VN^-vS 


\ 


bmis  Mwrrilaf  •>  A«t  «f  UmgrMi,  li  IIm  ymr  lUC,  Ijr 
DE    WITT    *    DAVENPORT. 
ktMOark'tOOivor  Jm  U.  8.  DMrMCout.  (in  Da*  Soutbarn  Dbtrktaf  N««  Ta 


w 


JOHN    LOVELL,    Esq., 


OF     UONTRIAL, 


Dtatrkt  tt  Nn  Ta 


WHO  WAS  ONE  OP  THE  FIR8T  AND  M08T  snOOEHSKUL 
nONUCiUi     IN    E8TABIJ8HINO     A    NATIONAL     LITEKATCKE     IN 
CANADIAN     COLONIES, 

THIS      VOLUME, 

WHICH  OWES  ITS  EXISTENCE  TO  HIS   GENEROUS  CARE, 

3s  ruptttfulli  JBibCtatttr, 

BT  HIS  GRATEFUL  AND  OBLIGED  FRIEND, 


MlttUlt,  Upp4r  Canada. 


SUSANNA    MOODIR 


if 


X 
XI 
XI 

X 

x\ 

XV 
XVI 

xi: 

X 


CONTENTS. 


I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

vu. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XII. 

XIU. 

XIV. 

XV. 

XVL 

xvn. 
xvin. 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 


S5 
68 


My  Grandfather  and  his  Sou 9 

My  Mother's  Funeral |^ 

My  Aunt  Rebecca ,g 

The  Tutor 22 

A  Change  in  ray  Prospccta       ••».,.      28 
The  Sorrows  of  Dependence      ....  32 

George  Harrison .      39 

Uiigrnlified  Curiosity        ••.....      48 
A  Portrait         •       •       •       .        , 

Dreams 

My  First  Love .. 

I  forfeit  my  Independence 90 

A  Visit  from  the  Great  Man  of  the  Family       .       .        .108 

Love  and  Hatred jj^ 

George  Harrison  tells  his  History 133 

George  Harrison  continues  his  History     ....    L50 

He  fluds  a  Friend  in  Need i62 

The  Meeting j,-  • 

Light  Come,  Light  Go igg 

^"c« 197 

My  Visit  to  Monctou  Park 219 


yjii  001ITl»Ti. 

XXII.  A8»dEvent     ...»••  ^    ^^^ 

XXIII.  ADliooTory *       *       *       '    249 

XXIV.  My  Second  Interview  with  Dln»h  Norlh   .       .       •       •    " 
XXV.  ADExplanatlon-Departure-Dli«ppolntmcot        .       .    263^ 

XXVI.  Elm  Grove ^^ 

XXVII.  My  Nur»o  and  Who  She  Wm    •*****«-- 

XXVIII.  MyLettem ^^o 

XXIX.  A  Welcome  .nd  Unwelcome  MeeUng       *       *       *       *    ^ 

XXX.  Dinah's  Confewlon ^^ 

XXXI.  Retributive  Justice    ..••••* 

XX  ^^"-  The  Double  Brldftl 


foi 

pn 

gn 

to 

tal 

ex( 

reg 

the 

res 

the 

con 

] 

wh 

wei 

GEOFFREI  MONCTON. 


CHAPTER     I. 


MY   ORANDFATHER   AND    HIS   SONS. 

Thbre  was  a  time— a  good  old  time— when  men  of  rank  and 
fortune  were  not  ashamed  of  their  poor  relations  ;  affording  the 
protection  of  their  name  and  influence  to  the  lower  shoots  of  the 
great  family  tree,  that,  springing  from  the  same  root,  expected 
to  derire  support  and  nourishment  from  the  main  stem. 

That  time  is  well-nigh  gone  for  ever  ;  kindred  love  and  hospi- 
tality have  decreased  with  the  increase  of  modern  luxury  aud 
exclnsiveness,  and  the  sacred  ties  of  consanguinity  are  now 
regarded  with  indifference— or  if  recognized,  it  ia  only  with 
those  who  move  in  the  same  charmed  circle,  and  who  make  a 
respectable  appearance  in  the  world— then,  and  then  only— are 
their  names  pronounced  with  reverence,  and  their  relationship 
considered  an  honor. 

It  Is  amusing  to  watch  from  a  distance,  the  eagerness  with 
which  some  people  assert  their  claims  to  relationship  with 
wealthy  and  titled  families,  and  the  intrigue  and  raanoeuvering  it 

1* 


10 


THE    U0KCT0N8. 


calls  forth  in  these  fortnnate  individuals,  in  order  to  disclaim  the 
boasted  connexion. 

It  was  my  fate  for  many  years  to  eat  the  bitter  bread  of 
dependence,  as  one  of  tl.ose  despised  and  insulted  domestic 
annoyanct'S — A  Poor  Rdation. 

My  grandfather,  Geoffrey  Moncton,  whose  name  I  bear,  was 
the  youngest  son  of  a  wealthy  Yorkshire  Baronet,  whose  hopes 
and  affections  entirely  centered  in  hia  first-born — what  became 
of  the  junior  scions  of  the  fiimily-tree  was  to  him  a  matter  of 
secondary  consideration.  My  grandfather,  however,  had  to  be 
provided  for  in  a  manner  becoming  the  son  of  a  gentleman,  and 
on  his  leaving  college.  Sir  Robert  offered  to  purchase  him  a 
commission  in  the  army. 

My  grandfather  was  a  lad  of  peaceable  habits,  and  had  a 
mortal  antipathly  to  fighting.  He  refused  point  blank  to  be  a 
soldier.  The  Navy  offered  the  same  cause  for  objection,  stjsength- 
ened  by  a  natural  aversion  to  the  water,  which  made  him  decline 
going  to  sea. 

What  was  to  be  done  with  the  incorrigible  youth  ?  Sir 
Kobert  flew  into  a  passion— called  him  a  coward — a  disgrace  to 
the  name  of  Moncton. 

My  grandfather,  who  was  a  philosopher  in  his  way,  pleaded 
guilty  to  the  first  charge.  From  his  cradle  he  had  carefully 
lavoided  scenes  of  strife  and  violence,  had  been  a  quiet,  industri- 
'ous  boy  at  school,  a  sober  plodding  student  at  college,  minding 
his  own  business,  and  troubling  himself  very  little  with  the  affairs 
of  others.  The  sight  of  blood  made  him  sick  ;  he  hated  the  smell 
of  gunpowder,  and  would  make  any  sacrifice  of  time  and  trouble 
rather  than  come  to  blows.  He  now  listened  to  the  long  cata- 
logue of  his  demerits,  which  his  angry  progenitor  ponred  forth 
against  him,  with  such  stoical  indifference,  that  it  noarly  drew 
upon  him  the  corporeal  punishment  which  at  all  times  he  so 
much  dreaded. 

Sir  Robert,  at  length  named  the  Church,  as  the  professioo 


bei 

fle 

pO! 
< 

SO 

in  I 
exf 

] 
con 
had 

1 

rep; 

tt 

tof 
II 

II 

II 

witl 
Witt 
Pla( 
hare 

who 
He 

conn 
tity 

VOWi 

thon 
0 
fathi 
dete 
his  t 
hour 
Btocl 


ler  to  disclaim  the 

!  bitter  bread  of 
insulted  domestic 

lame  I  bear,  was 
met,  whose  hopes 
rn — what  became 
him  a  matter  of 
iwever,  had  to  bo 
a  gentleman,  aud 
)  purchase  him  a 

labits,  and  had  a 
Dint  blank  to  be  a 
tbjection,  8tj?ength- 
1  made  him  decline 

ible  youth  ?  Sir 
ird — a  disgrace  to 

1  his  way,  pleaded 
I  he  had  carefully 
n  a  quiet,  industrl- 
it  college,  mindiiif? 
ttle  with  the  affairs 
he  hated  the  smell 
)f  time  and  trouble 
d  to  the  long  cata- 
aitor  poured  forth 
that  it  nearly  drew 
at  all  times  he  so 

I,  as  the  professioo 


THE     MOKOTONS. 


II 


best  suited  to  a  young  man  of  bis  peaceable  disposition,  and 
flew  into  a  fresh  paroxysm  of  rage,  when  the  obstinate  fellow 
positively  refused  to  be  a  parson, 

"  He  had  a  horror,"  he  said,  "  of  making  a  mere  profession  o. 
so  sacred  a  calling.  Besides,  he  had  an  awkward  impediment 
in  his  speech,  and  he  did  not  mean  to  stand  up  in  a  pulpit  to 
expose  his  infirmity  to  the  ridicule  of  others." 

Honor  to  my  grandfather.  He  did  not  want  for  mental 
courage,  though  Sir  Robert,  i.  the  plenitude  of  his  wisdom, 
had  thought  fit  to  brand  him  as  a  coward. 

The  bar  was  next  proposed  for  his  consideration,  but  the  lad 
replied  firmly,  "  1  don't  mean  to  be  a  lawyer." 

"  Your  reasons,  sir  ?"  cried  Sir  Robert  in  a  tone  which  seemed 
to  forbid  a  liberty  of  choice. 
"I  have  neither  talent  nor  inclination  for  the  profession." 
"  And  pray,  sir,  what  have  you  talent  or  inclination  for  V 
"A   merchant,"— returned   Geoffrey  calmly  and   decidedly, 
without  appearing  to  notice  his  aristocratic    sire's    look   of 
withering  contempt.     "  I  have  no  wish  to  be  a  poor  gentleman. 
Place  me  in  my  Uncle  Drury's  counting-house,  and  I  will  work 
hard  and  become  an  independent  man." 

Now  this  Uncle  Drury  was  brother  to  the  late  Lady  Moncton, 
who  had  been  married  by  the  worthy  Baronet  for  her  wealth.' 
He  was  one  of  Sir  Robert's  horrors— one  of  those  rich,  vulgar 
connections  which  are  not  so  easily  shaken  off,  and  whose  iden-' 
tity  is  with  great  difficulty  denied  to  the  world.  Sir  Robert 
vowed,  that  if  the  perverse  lad  persisted  in  his  grovelling  choice, 
though  he  had  but  two  sons,  he  would  discard  him  altogether. 

Obstinacy  is  a  family  failing  of  the  Monctons.  My  grand- 
father, wisely  or  unwisely,  as  circumstances  should  afterwards 
determine,  remained  firm  to  his  purpose.  Sir  Robert  realized 
his  threat  ;  the  father  and  son  parted  in  anger,  and  from  that 
hour,  the  latter  was  looked  upon  as  an  alien  to  the  old  family 
stock  ;  which  he  was  considered  to  have  disgraced. 


(.-■^ 


la 


TBS     WONOTONS. 


Geoffrey,  however,  sacceeded  In  carrying  out  his  great  life 
object.  He  toiled  on  witU  iudefatigable  industry,  and  soor 
became  rich.  He  had  singular  talents  for  acquiring  wealth,  and 
they  were  not  suffered  to  remain  idle.  The  few  pounds  with 
which  he  commenced  his  mercantile  career,  soon  multiplied  into 
thousands,  and  tens  of  thousands;  and  there  is  no  knowing 
what  an  immense  fortune  he  might  have  realized,  had  not  death 
cut  shoit  his  speculations  at  aii  early  period  of  his  life. 

He  had  married  uncle  Drury's  only  daughter,  a  few  years 
after  he  became  partner  in  the  Brm,  by  whom  he  h-d  two  sons. 
Edward  and  Robert,  to  both  of  whom  he  bequeathed  an  eitcel- 

^*  Kdwlrf^e  eldest,  my  father,  had  been  educated  to  fill  the 
mercantile  situation,  now  vacaut  by  its  proprietor's  death,  whicb 
was  an  ample  fortune  in  itself,  if  conducted  with  prudence  and 

regularity.  .     ,  r       • 

Robert  had  been  early  placed  in  the  office  of  a  lawyer  of  emi- 
nenee,  and  was  considered  a  youth  of  great  talenU  and  promise. 
Their  mother  had  been  dead  for  some  years,  and  of  her  little  « 
known  in  the  annaU  of  the  family.  When  speculating  upon  the 
subject,  I  have  imagined  her  to  have  been  a  plain,  quiet,  matter- 
of  fact  body,  who  never  did  or  said  anything  worth  recording. 

When  a  man's  position  in  life  is  marked  out  for  him  by  others, 
and  he  is  left  no  voice  in  the  matter,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  he 
is  totally  unfitted  by  nature  and  inclination  for  the  post  he  is 
called  to  fill.     So  it  was  with  my  father,  Edward  Moncton.     A 
person  less  adapted  to  fill  an  important  place  in  the  mercauule 
world  could  scarcely  have  been  found.     He  had  a  genius  for 
spending,  not  for  making  money;  and  was  so  easy  and  credulous 
that  any  artful  villain  might  dupe  him  out  of  it.     Had  he  been 
heir  to  the  title  and  the  old  family  estates,  be  would  have  made 
a  first  rate  country  gentleman ;  as  he  possessed  a  fine  manly 
person,  was  frank  and  generous,  and  excelled  in  all  athletic 
•porti. 


sh 
he 

0l( 

J" 
g" 
\*i 

is' 
uw 

clu 
cul 

:iui 
coi 
cii< 

Ro 
his 

inc 

f 

BO 

cilt 

J 

ren 
r,u( 
fati 
dec 
apf 
frit 
imu 
phe 
ing 


I  oat  his  great  life 
industry,  and  soon 
cquiring  wealtli,  and 
he  few  pounds  with 
soon  multiplied  into 
here  is  uo  knowing 
Jized,  had  not  death 
I  of  his  life, 
ughter,  a  few  years 
oin  he  hrtd  two  sons, 
bequeathed  an  exuel- 

k  educated  to  fill  the 
jrietor's  death,  which 
i  with  prudence  and 

;e  of  a  lawyer  of  emi- 
t  talents  and  promise. 
3,  and  of  her  littie  is 
speculating  upon  the 
a  plain,  quiet,  matter- 
ig  worth  recording, 
out  for  him  by  others, 
le  cases  out  of  ten,  be 
on  for  the  post  he  is 
Sdward  Mouctou.     A 
)lace  in  the  mercantile 
He  had  a  genius  for 
80  easy  and  credulous 
t  of  it.     Had  he  been 
,  be  would  have  made 
ossessed  a  fine  manly 
xcelled  in  all  atUetio 


TBI     HON0TON8. 

My  Uncle  Robert  was  the  very  reTerse  of  my  father-^-stern, 
shrewd  and  secretive  ;  no  one  could  see  more  of  his  miud  than 
he  was  willing  to  show ;  and,  like  my  grandfatljer,  he  had  • 
great  love  for  money,  and  a  natural  talent  for  acquiring  it.  An 
old  servant  of  my  grandfather's,  Nicholas  Banks  by  name,  used 
jocosely  to  say  of  him  :  "  Had  master  Robert  been  born  a  beg* 
gar,  he  would  have  converted  his  ragged  wrap-rascal  into  « 
v»ilvet  gown.     The  art  of  making  mon«y  was  bora  in  him." 

Uncle  Robert  was  very  suct^essful  in  his  profession — and  such 
is  the  respect  that  men  of  common  minds  pay  to  wealth  for  ita 
own  sake,  that  my  uncle  was  as  much  courted  by  persons  of  hiil 
class,  as  if  he  hud  been  Lord  Chancellor  of  En^^land.  He  waa 
called  til"  Aontit  lawyer — wherefore,  I  never  could  determine, 
except  that  he  was  the  rich  lawyer ;  and  people  cuuld  not 
imagine  that  the  envied  possessor  of  live  thousand  per  annum, 
could  have  any  inducement  to  play  the  rogue,  or  cheat  his 
clients. 

The  dependent  slave  who  was  chained  all  day  to  the  desk,  in, 
Rol)ert  Mou'jton's  office,  knew  him  to  be  a  dishonest  man.  But 
his  practice  daily  increased,  and  his  reputatioa  and  fortune 
increased  in  proportion. 

The  habits  and  dispositions  of  these  brothers  were  so  different, 
BO  utterly  opposed  to  each  other,  that  it  was  difficult  to  recon- 
cile the  miud  to  the  fact  that  they  were  so  closely  related. 

My  uncle  had  a  subtle  knowledge  of  character,  which  was 
rendered  more  acute  by  his  long  acquaintance  with  the  world  ; 
p,ud  he  did  not  always  turn  it  to  a  righteous  account.  My 
father  was  a  babe  in  these  matters — a  cunning  child  might 
deceive  him  ;  while  my  uncle  had  a  knaok  of  saving  without 
appearing  parsimonious,  my  father  had  au  unfortunate  habit  of 
frittering  bis  money  away  upon  trifles.  You  would  have 
imagined  that  the  one  had  discovered  the  secret  of  the  philoso- 
pher^ stone  ;  and  that  the  other  had  ruined  himself  in  endeavor- 
ing to  fiud  it  out.    The  one  was  economical  from  choice,  the  other 


14 


THE     UOMOTOMS. 


extravagant  from  the  mere  love  of  spendiug.  My  uncle  married 
a  rich  merchant's  daughter,  for  her  money.  My  fatlier  ran  off 
•  with  a  poor  curate's  penniless  girl,  for  love.  My  father  neg- 
lected his  business  and  became  poor.  In  the  hope  of  redeeming 
his  fortune  he  frequented  the  turf  and  the  gambling-table  ;  and 
died  broken-hearted  and  insolvent  iu  the  prime  of  manhood  ; 
leaving  his  widow  and  her  orphan  boy  to  the  i)rotection  and 
guardianship  of  the  brother,  who  had  drudged  all  his  life  to 
become  a  millionaire. 

My  dear  mother  only  survived  her  handsome,  reckless 
husband,  six  short  montlis ;  aud,  bereaved  of  both  my  natural 
protectors,  1  was  doomed  at  the  early  age  of  eight  years  to 
I  Ilk  the  bitter  cup  of  poverty  and  dependence,  to  its  very 
dregs. 


CHAPTER     II. 

MY     mother's     PUNBRAI,  . 

T  NEVER  saw  my  Uncle  Robert  Moncton  until  the  morning 
of  my  motliers  funeral  ;  and  th3  impression  that  firRt  interview 
made  upon  my  yomg  heart  will  never  be  forgotten.  It  cast  the 
first  dark  shadow  upon  the  sunny  dial  of  my  life,  and  for  many 
piunful  years  my  days  and  hours  were  numbered  beneath  it.. 

gloomy  influence. 

It  wa«  a  chill,  murky  November  day,  such  a  day  as  London 
or  its  immediate  vicinity  can  alone  produce.  The  rain  fell 
slowly  and  steadily  to  the  ground  ;  and  trickled  from  the 
window-frames  iu  one  continuous  stream.  A  thick  mist  hung 
upon  the  panes  of  glass  like  a  gauze  veil,  intersected  by  innu- 
merab'e  channels  of  water,  that  looked  like  a  pattern  of  open 
work  left  in  the  dingy  material.    The  shutters  of  our  once 


I 
I 

E 
t 
C 

I 

c 
a 


V 
k 

C( 

tl 
ki 
h( 

w 
to 

th 

W( 
CO 

tei 


THE     MONCTON'S, 


16 


r.  My  uncle  married 
.  My  fdtlier  rau  off 
ve.  My  fatlitr  neg- 
lie  hope  of  redeeruiug 
gambling-table  ;  and 
prime  of  manhood  ; 

0  the  protection  and 
udgcd  all  his  life  to 

handsome,  reckless 

1  of  both  my  natural 
je  of  eight  years  to 
leudeuce,  to  its  very 


I. 

R  AI.  . 

on  until  the  morning 
an  that  firRt  interview 
argot  ten.  It  cast  the 
my  life,  and  for  many 
uumbered  beneath  ito 

uch  a  day  as  London 
odnce.  Tiie  rain  fell 
id  trickled  from  the 
.  A  thick  mist  bung 
il,  intersected  by  innu- 
like  a  pattern  of  open 
shutters  of  our  once 


populous  parlor  were  half^jlosed  ;  and  admitted  into  the  large, 
deserted  apartment,  only  a  portion  of  this  obscure  light.    The 
hearse  destined  to  convey  the  remains  of  my  dear  mother  t% 
their  last,  long  resting-place,  was  draw:,  up  at  the  door.     I  saw 
it  looming  through  the  fog,  with  its  tall,  black  ^liadowy  plume-', 
like  some  ghostly  and  monstrous  thing.     A  hitherto  ui.known 
feeling  of  dread  stole  over  me.     My  life  had  been  all  sinii^hiiiu 
up  to  the  present  moment^the  sight  of  that  mouniftjl  funeral 
arruy  swept  like  a  dark  cloud  over  the  smiling  sky,  blotting  out 
all  that  was  bright  and  beautiful  from  my  eyes  and  heart.     1 
screamed  in  terror  and  despair,  and  hid  .ny  face  in  the  lap  of 
my  old  nurse  to  shut  out  the  frightful  vision,  and  shed  torrents 
of  tears. 

The  good  woman  tried  to  soothe  me  while  she  adjusted  my 
black  dress,  as  I  was  to  form  one  in  that  doleful  procession  as 
chief  mourner— I  was  my  mother's  only  child.  The  only  real 
mourner  there. 

The  door  that  led  into  the  next  room  was  partly  open.  I 
saw  the  undertaker's  people  removing  the  coffin  in  order  to 
place  it  in  the  hearse.  This  was  a  fresh  cause  for  an.\iety.  I 
knew  that  that  black,  mysterious  looking  bo.x  contained  the 
cold,  pale,  sleeping  form  of  my  mother  ;  but  I  could  not  realize 
the  fact,  that  the  beautiful  and  beloved  being,  who  had  so  lately 
kissed  and  blessed  me,  was  unconscious  of  her  removal  from  her 
home  and  weeping  boy. 

"Mammal— dear  mamma!"   I  cried,   struggling   violently, 
with  nurse.     "  Let  me  go,  nurse  !  those  wicked  men  shall  not 
take  away  mnjiima  I" 

Two  gentlemen,  attracted  by  my  cries  a.,a  struggles,  entered 
the  room.  The  foremost  was  a  tall,  portly  man,  whom  the 
world  would  call  handsome.  His  features  w-.-c  good,  and  his 
complexion  darkly  brilliant  ;  but  there  was  a  haughtv,  con- 
temptuous expression  in  his  large,  prominent,  selfish  iooking 
eyes,  that  sent  a  chill  to  my  heart.     Glittering  and  glassy,  they 


I 


P'1 

r     'Vrt       ! 


16 


TH  B     UON0T0N8. 


■p»rkled  like  ice— clear,  saircastic  and  repelling— and  oh,  how 
cold  I  The  glance  of  that  eye  made  me  silent  in  a  moment  It 
fascinated  like  the  eye  of  a  snake.  I  continued  to  shiver  and 
..rtre  at  him,  as  long  as  its  scornful  gaze  remained  riveted  upon 
ly  face.     1  felt  a  kindred  feeling  springing  up  in  my  heart— a 

ling  of  defiance  and  resistance  that  would  fain  return  hatred 
lur  hatred,  scorn  for  scorn  ;  and  never  in  after  life  could  I  meet 
il.e  searciiing  look  of  that  stern  cold  eye,  without  experiencing 
the  same  outward  abhorrence  and  inward  revulsion. 

He  took  my  hand,  and  turning  me  round,  examined  my  coun- 
tenance with  critical  niinuteness,  neither  moved  by  my  childish 
indignation  nor  my  tears.  "A  strong-limbed,  strsighl-made 
fellow,  this.  I  did  not  think  that  Edward  could  be  tlie  father 
of  such  an  energetic-looking  boy.  He's  like  his  grandfather, 
and  if  I  mistake  not,  will  be  just  as  obstinate  and  self-sus- 
tained." 

"  A  true  Moncton,"  returned  his  companion,  a  coarse-featured, 
vulgar-looking  man,  with  a  weak,  undecided,  but  otherwise 
kindly  countenance.  "  You  will  not  be  able  to  bend  that  young 
one.  to  your  purpose." 

A  bitter  smile  was  the  reply,  and  a  fixed  stare  from  those 

terribly  bright  eyes. 

"  Poor  child  !  He's  very  unfortunate,"  continued  the  same 
speaker.  "  I  pity  him  from  my  very  soul."  He  placed  bis  ' 
,lnrge  hand  kindly  upon  my  head,  and  drawing  me  between  his 
knees  held  up  my  face  and  kissed  me  with  an  air  of  parental 
tenderness.  Touched  by  the  unexpected  caress,  I  clasped  my 
arms  about  his  neck,  and  hid  my  face  in  his  bosom.  He  fiung 
himself  into  a  large  chair,  and  lifted  me  upon  his  knee. 

"You  seem  to  have  taken  a  fancy  to  the  boy,"  said  my  uncle, 
in  the  same  sarcastic  tone.  "Suppose  you  adopt  him  as  your 
■on.  I  would  gladly  be  rid  of  him  for  ever  ;  and  would  pay 
well  for  his  change  of  name  and  country.  Is  it  a  bargain  ?' 
and  he  grasped  his  companion  by  the  shoulder. 


m 

cl 
vi 

wi 
fo 

Bi 

rii 
ab 
ue 
sic 

yo 

th( 

th( 
to 
bei 

»  1 
sht 
mil 
sta 
its 
Iwit 
rea 
J 
to 
Mr 
■gi 


lelling — and  oh,  how 
ent  in  a  moment  It 
tinued  to  shiver  and 
eroaiiied  riveted  upon 
ig  up  in  my  heart — a 
lid  fain  return  hatred 
kfter  life  could  I  meet 

without  experiencing 
revulsion. 

id,  examined  my  coun- 
noved  by  my  childish    • 
limbed,  strsiglil-made 
■d  could  be  tlie  father 

lilie  his  grandfather, 
bstinate  and  self-sus- 

lion,  a  coarse-featured, 
Bcided,  but  otherwise 
3le  to  bend  that  young 

ixed  stare  from  those 

,"  continued  the  same 
joul."    He  placed  bis  ' 
rawing  me  between  his 
ith  an  air  of  parental 
1  caress,  I  clasped  my 

his  bosom.     He  flung 
ipon  his  knee, 
he  boy,"  said  my  uncle, 
ou  adopt  him  as  your 

ever  ;  and  would  pay 
ry.  Is  it  a  bargain  ?' 
)alder. 


TBI     MONOTOKB. 


It 


"  No.  I  will  not  incur  the  responsibility.  I  have  done  too 
much  against  the  poor  child  already.  Besides,  a  muu  witli  ten 
children  has  uo  need  of  adopting  the  child  of  a  stranger.  Pro- 
vidence has  thrown  him  into  your  hands,  Robert  Monctou  ;  and 
whether  for  good  or  evil,  I  beseech  you  to  treat  the  lad  kindly 
tor  his  father's  sake." 

"  Well,  well,  I  must,  I  see,  make  the  best  of  a  bad  bargain. 
But,  Wulters,  you  could  so  easily  take  hira  with  you  to  Ame- 
rica. He  has  uo  friends  by  the  mother's  side,  to  make  any  stir 
about  bis  disappearance.  Under  your  name  his  identity  will 
never  be  recognized,  and  it  would  be  taking  a  thorn  out  of  mv 
side."  ' 

"  To  plant  it  in  my  own  heart.  The  child  must  remain  with 
you." 

I  didn't  pay  very  particular  attention  to  this  conversation  at 
the  time,  but  after  events  recalled  it  vividly  to  my  recollection. 

The  undertaker  put  an  end  to  the  conference  by  informing 
the  gentlemen  that  "  all  was  ready,  and  the  hearse  was  about 
to  move  forward."  My  nurse  placed  me  in  a  mourning  coach, 
beside  my  uncle  and  his  companion,  in  order  that  I  might  form 
a  part  in  that  dismal  procession,  to  thfl  nearest  cemetery.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  impression  that  solemn  scene  made  on  my 
mind.  My  first  ideas  of  death  and  decay  were  formed  whilst 
standing  beside  my  mother's  grave.  There  my  heart  received 
its  first  great  life  lesson  ;  and  owned  its  first  acquaintanceship 
Iwith  grief— the  idtal  vanished,  and  the  hard,  uncompromising 
real  took  its  place. 

After  the  funeral  was  over,  I  accompanied  my  Uncle  Robert 
to  his  house  in  Hatton  Oarden.  At  the  door  we  parted  with 
Mr.  Walters,  and  many  years  elapsed,  before  I  saw  his  foca 
■gain. 


■i^iip«*r"p^i"WB»« 


It 


vac    MONCTON*. 


CHAPTER    III. 


I'l 


)!t 


I  1 


.in 


HY   ACNT   REBECCA. 

Mrs.  Moncton  welcomed  the  poor  orphan  with  kindness. 
She  was  a  little,  meek-looking  woman  ;  with  a  sweet  voice,  and 
a  very  pale  face.  She  might  have  beea  pretty  when  young, 
but  my  boyish  impression  was  that  she  was  very  plain.  By 
the  side  of  her  tall,  stern  partner,  she  looked  the  most  delicate, 
diminutive  creature  in  the  world  ;  and  her  gentle,  timid  manner 
made  the  contrast  appear  greater  than  it  really  was. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  poor  child,"  she  said,  lifting  me  up  in  her 
arms  and  wiping  the  tears  from  my  face.  "You  are  young, 
indeed,  to  be  left  an  orphan." 

I  clasped  her  neck  and  sobbed  aloud.  The  sound  of  her  voice 
reminded  me  of  my  mother,  and  I  began  to  comprehend  dimly 
all  I  had  lost. 

"Rebecca,"  said  my  unjle,  in  his  deep,  clear  voice,  "you 
mast  not  spoil  the  boy.    There  is  no  need  of  this  display." 

His  wife  seemed  as  much  under  the  influence  of  his  eye  as 
myself.  She  instantly  released  me  from  her  arras,  and  quietly 
placed  me  in  -v  chair  beside  the  fire,  and  in  the  presence  of  her 
husband,  she  took  no  more  notice  of  me  than  she  would  have 
done  of  one  of  the  domestic  animals  about  the  house.  Yet,  her 
eyes  rested  upon  me  with  motherly  kindness,  and  she  silently 
took  care  to  administer  liberally  to  all  my  wants  ;  and  when  she 
did  speak,  it  was  in  such  .?  soft,  soothing  tone,  that  I  felt  that 
she  was  my  friend,  and  loved  her  with  my  whole  heart. 

My  uncle  waa  a  domestic  tyrant— K:ruel,  exacting,  and  aa 


TBI    MONOTOIfl, 


19 


lan  with  kindness, 
a  sweet  voice,  and 
retty  when  young, 
IS  very  plain.  By 
i  the  most  delicate, 
eiitle,  timid  manner 
A\y  was. 

lifting  me  op  in  her 
•You  are  young, 

J  sound  of  her  voice 
compreheud  dimly 

clear  voice,  "you 
this  display." 
lence  of  his  eye  as 

arras,  and  quietly 
the  presence  of  her 
an  she  would  have 
le  house.  Yet,  her 
S8,  and  she  silently 
lilts  ;  and  when  she 
)ne,  that  I  felt  that 
lole  heart. 

exacting,  and  ai 


obstinate  as  a  male ;  yet,  she  contrived  to  live  with  bim  on 
friendly  terms  ;  the  only  creature  in  the  world,  I  am  fully  per- 
NuudeU,  who  did  not  hate  him.  Married,  as  she  had  been,  for 
money,  and  possessing  few  personal  advantages,  it  was  wonder- 
ful the  influence  she  had  over  him  in  her  quiet  way.  She  never 
resisted  his  authority,  however  harshly  enforced  ;  and  often 
stood  between  him  and  his  victims,  diverting  his  resentment 
without  appearing  to  oppose  his  will.  If  there  existed  in  his 
frigid  breast  one  sentiment  of  kindness  for  any  human  creature, 
I  think  it  was  for  her. 

With  women  he  was  no  favorite.  He  had  no  respect  for  the 
SOX,  and  I  query  whether  he  was  ever  in  love  in  his  life.  If  ho 
had  ever  owned  the  tender  passion,  it  must  have  been  in  very 
early  youth,  before  his  heart  got  hardened  and  iced  in  the  world. 
My  aunt  seemed  necessary  to  his  comfort,  his  convenience,  his 
vanity  ;  however  he  might  be  disliked  by  others,  he  was  certain 
of  her  fidelity  and  attachment.  His  respect  for  her  was  the  one 
bright  spot  in  his  character,  and  even  that  was  tarnished  by  a 
refined  system  of  selfishness. 

The  only  comfort  I  enjoyed  during  my  cheerless  childhood,  I 
derived  from  her  silent  attention  to  my  want«  and  wishes,  which 
she  gratified  as  far  as  she  dared,  without  incurring  the  jealous 
displeasure  of  her  exacting  husband. 

In  private,  Mrs.  Moncton  always  treated  me  as  her  own  child. 
She  unlocked  the  fountains  of  natural  affection,  which  my  uncle's 
harshness  had  sealed,  and  love  gushed  forth.  I  dearly  loved 
her,  and  longed  to  call  her  mother  ;  but  she  forbade  all  outward 
demonstration  of  my  attachment,  which  she  assured  me  woiild 
not  only  be  very  offensive  to  Mr.  Moncton,  but  would  draw 
down  his  displeasure  upon  us  both. 

The  hours  I  spent  with  my  good  annt  were  few  ;  I  only  saw 
her  at  meals,  and  on  the  Sabbath  day,  when  I  accompanied 
her  to  church,  and  spent  the  whole  day  with  her  and  her  only 
100'— a  crofls,  peevish  boy,  some  four  years  older  than  myself-^ 


r 


bat  of  him  anon.  During  tho  winter,  she  alway  sent  for  me  into 
the  parlor,  during  the  dark  hour  between  dinner  and  tea,  when 
I  recited  to  her  tlie  lensons  I  liad  learned  with  my  cousin's  tutor 
during  the  day.  My  uncle  was  always  absent  at  that  hour,  and 
these  were  precious  moments  to  the  younjjf  heart,  that  knew  uo 
companiouphip,  and  pined  lor  affection  and  sympathy. 

My  worthy  aunt  I  it  is  with  heartfelt  gratitude  I  pay  this 
slight  tribute  to  your  memory.  But  for  your  gentle  love  and 
kind  teachings,  1  might  have  beco-ne  as  cold  and  tyrannical  as 
your  harsh  lord— as  selfish  and  unfeeling  as  your  unnatural  son. 
How  1  delighted  to  sit  by  youi  side,  in  the  warm,  red  light 
of  the  cheerful  fire,  in  that  large,  dusky  room,  and  hold  your 
small  white  hand  in  mine,  while  I  recounted  to  y(iu  all  the  beau- 
tiful and  shadowy  reminiscences  of  my  happy  infancy— to  watch 
the  pensive  smile  steal  over  your  lii)8,  as  I  described  the  garden 
ia  which  I  played,  the  dear  little  while  bed  in  which  I  slept,  and 
where  my  own  dear  mother  nightly  knelt  beside  me,  to  hear  me 
repeat  my  simple  prayers  ai<d  hymns,  before  she  kissed  and 
blessed  me,  and  left  me  to  the  protecting  care  of  the  great 
Father  in  Heaven. 

"  Ah  1"  1  exclaimed  one  evening,  while  sitting  at  my  aunt's 
feet,  "  why  did  she  die  and  leave  me  for  ever  ?  I  am  nobody's 
child.  Other  little  boys  have  kind  mothers  to  love  them,  but  I 
am  alone  in  the  world.  Aunt,  let  me  be  yonr  boy— your  own 
dear  little  boy,  and  I  will  love  you  almost  as  well  as  I  did  my 

poor  mamma !" 

The  good  woman  caught  me  to  her  heart,  tears  were  stream- 
ing" down  her  kind,  benevolent  face,  she  kissed  me  passionately, 
as  she  sobbed  out, 

"  Geoffrey,  you  will  never  know  how  much  I  love  you — more, 
my  poor  boy,  than  I  dare  own.  But  rest  assured  that  you  shall 
never  want  a  mother's  love  while  I  live." 

Well  and  conscientiously  did  she  perform  her  promise.  Sha 
hM  long  been  dead,  but  time  wfil  never  efface  from  my  mind 


a 
eg 
wi 

BUI 

an 

chi 
poi 

pC( 

wit 

eve 

opi 

lool 

and 

uot 

I 

estc 

surl 

'hw 

bis  ( 

A 

pub] 

with 

actu 

the 

the 

tt'jal 

cal  c 

the 

domt 

my  v 

It 

onge 

ho  h 

forbo 


ly  sent  for  me  into 
Iter  mid  tea,  when 
k  my  cousin's  tutor 
;  at  that  hour,  aud 
eart,  that  knew  uo 
mpatby. 

ttitude  I  pay  this 
tr  gentle  love  and 
and  tyrannical  as 
our  unnatural  sou. 
,ha  warm,  red  light 
9m,  and  hold  your 

0  y6u  all  the  beau- 
iufancy — to  watch 

iscribed  the  garden 
t  which  I  slept,  aud 
lido  me,  to  hear  me 
ire  she  kissed  and 
care  of  the  great 

itting  at  my  aunt's 
ir  7  I  am  nobody's 
to  love  them,  but  I 
our  boy — your  owu 
as  well  as  I  did  my 

,  tears  were  stream- 
led  me  passiouately, 

1  I  lore  yon — more, 
jured  that  yoa  shall 

I  her  promise.  She 
Ifaoe  from  my  mind 


THEUO.VCTONg.  dft 

a  tender  recollection  of  her  kindness.  Since  I  arrived  at  mao's 
ostttto,  I  i.ttvc  knelt  beside  her  ^rave,  and  moistened  the  turf 
which  enfolds  that  warm,  noble  heart  with  grateful  tears 

She  hud,  a8  I  before  stated,  one  son-the  first  born  and  only 
survivor  of  a  large  family.     This  boy  was  a  great  source  of 
anxiety  to  his   ...other ;  a  sullen,   unmanageable,  ill-tempered 
child.     Cruel  and  cowardly,  ho  united  with  the  cold,  selHsh  dis- 
position  of  the  father,  a  jealous,  proud  aud  vindictive   spirit 
peculiarly  his  own.     It  was  impossible  to  keep  on  friendly  terms 
with  TheophUus  Moucton  ;  he  was  always  taking  affronts  and 
over  ou  the   alert  to  dii<pute  and  contradict  every    vord   or 
opinion  advanced  by  another.     He  would  take  offence  at  every 
look  and  gesture,  which  he  fancied  derogatory  to  his  dignity  ; 
and  If  you  refused  to  speak  to  him,  he  considered  that  you  did 
uot  pay  hiin  proper  respect-that  you  slighted  and  insulted  him 
He  was  afraid  of  his  father,  for  whom  he  entertained  littto 
esteem  or  affection  ;  and  to  his  gentle  mother  he  was  always 
surly  and  disobedient ;  ridiculing  Lor  maternal  admonitions,  and 
hwarting  and  opposing  her  commands,  because  he  knew  that 
his  opposition  pained  and  annoyed  her. 

Me-he  hated  ;  and  not  ouly  told  me  so  to  my  face,  both  in 
public  and  private,  but  encouraged  the  servaats  to  treat  me 
with  insolence  and  neglect.  This  class  of  iudividuaU  are  seldom 
actuated  by  high  and  generous  motives ;  and  anxious  to  court 
he  favor  of  U.eir  wealthy  master's  heir,  they  soon  found  that 
the  best  way  to  worm  themselves  into  his  good  graces,  was  to 
t.jat  me  with  disrespect.  The  tauuts  aud  blows  of  my  tyraoiii- 
cal  cousi.1,  though  hard  to  bear,  never  wounded  me  so  keenly  as 
the  sneers  and  whispered  remarks  of  these  worldly,  low-bred 
domestics.  Their  conduct  clenched  the  iron  of  dependence  into 
my  very  soul. 

It  was  vain  for  my  aunt  to  remonstrate  with  her  sou  on  hi. 
ungenerous  conduct ;  her  authority  with  him  was  a  merl  cipher, 
he  hod  his  father  upon  his  side,  and  for  my  aunt's-  sake  I 
forbore  to  complain.  ' 


P^PW— T^W|i"ii.,l 


M 


TBI     MONOTOMS. 


e 

11 
ii 
1 

ti 


CHAPTER     IV. 

THE   TUTOR. 

My  ancle  did  not  send  us  to  school,  but  engaged  a  young 
man  of  mean  birth,  but  good  classical  attainments,  to  act  in  the 
capacity  of  tutor  to  his  son,  and  as  au  act  of  especial  favor, 
which  fact  was  duly  impressed  upon  me  from  day  to  day,  I  was 
allowed  the  benefit  of  his  instructions. 

Mr.  Jones,  though  a  good  practical  teacher,  was  a  weak, 
mean  creature,  possessing  the  very  soul  of  a  sneak,  lie  soon 
discovered  that  the  best  way  to  please  his  elder  pupil  was  to 
neglect  and  treat  me  ill.  He  had  been  engaged  on  a  very 
moderate  salary  to  teach  one  lad,  and  he  was  greatly  annoyed 
when  Mr.  Moucton  introduced  me  into  his  presence,  coldly 
remarking,  "  that  I  was  an  orphan  son  of  his  brother— a  led 
thrown  upon  his  charity,  and  it  would  add  very  little  to  Mr. 
Jones's  labors  to  associate  me  with  Theophilus  in  his  studies." 

Mr.  Jones  was  poor  and  friendless,  and  had  to  make  his  own 
way  in  the  world.  He  dared  not  resent  the  imposition,  for  fear 
of  losing  his  situation,  and  while  outwardly  he  cheerfully 
acquiesced  in  Mr.  Moncton's  proposition,  he  conceived  a  violent 
prejudice  against  me,  as  being  the  cause  of  it. 

He  was  a  spiteful,  irritable,  narrow-minded  man  ;  and  I  soon 
found  that  any  attempt  to  win  his  regard,  or  conciliate  him,  was 
futile  :  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  dislike  me,  and  he  did  so 
with  a  hearty  good  will  that  no  attention  or  asaiduity  on  my 
part  coiAd  overcome. 

Theophilus,  who,  like  his  father,  professed  a  g-at  insight  int« 
character,  read  that  of  his  instructor  at  a  glance  j  and  despis- 


ID 

m 
m 
su 
nc 
ot 

ju. 
foi 
wi 
we 
fot 

bu 
fro 
Fo 
or 
Mi 
hk 
his 
in] 
the 
bes 
J 
anc 
teri 

BOV 

1 


engaged  a  yoang 
uontB,  to  act  in  the 
>  of  especial  favor, 
I  day  to  day,  I  was 

uber,  was  a  weak, 
I  aneak.  lie  soon 
elder  pupil  was  to 
jngaged  on  a  very 
as  greatly  annoyed 
lis  presence,  coldly 

his  brother — a  led 
I  very  little  to  Mr. 
as  in  his  studies." 
ad  to  make  his  own 

imposition,  for  fear 
rdly  he  cheerfully 
I  conceived  a  violent 
it. 

ed  man  ;  and  I  soon 
r  conciliate  him,  was 
I  me,  aud  he  did  so 

or  asaidttity  on  my 


a  g'*''at  insight  into 
glance;  and  despis" 


TBE     UONCTONI.  || 

•d  him  accordingly.     But  Theophilus  was  vain  and  fond  of  ad- 
miraUou,  and  could  not  exist  without  satellites  to  move  around 
hi.n,    an.l  r.u.ler  him  their  hoin,.gt.  a«  to  a  superior  luminary 
lie  was  a  niuKnilieunt  puyniUHler  to  his  si.euks  ;   and    bound 
tliciu  to  huu  with  the  strongest  of  all  ties— his  porso  strings 

Mr.  Aloncton,  alwuyH  allowed  this  lad  a  handsome  sum 
monthly  for  hi«  own  private  expense*  ;  and  foiwi  as  he  wa^  of 
money,  he  n.vur  ii,q„irc.J  of  the  haughty  arrogant  boy,  the 
manner  in  which  l,e  disposed  of  his  pocket  money.  He  might 
save  or  spend  it  us  inclination  prompted— he  considered  it  a 
neces.sary  outlay  t„  give  his  son  weight  and  influence  with 
others  ;  and  ucvtir  troubled  himself  about  it  again. 

Tlitophilus  soon  won  over  Mr.  Jones  to  his  interest,  by  a  few 
judioious  presents  ;  while  he  fostered  his  dislike  to  me,  by  in- 
forming hiiu  of  circumstances  regarding  my  birth  and  family, 
with  wliieh  1  never  became  acquainted  until  some  years  after^ 
wards.  At  this  distance  of  time,  I  can  almost  forgive  Mr.  Jones, 
for  tiie  indiflerence  and  contempt  ho  felt  for  his  junior  pupil. 

Inliaenced  by  these  feelings,  he  taught  me  as  little  as  he  could; 
but  I  had  a  thirst  for  knowledge,  aud  he  could  not  hinder  me 
from  hstening  and  profiting  by  his  instructions  to  my  cousin. 
Fortunately  for  me,  Theophilus  did  not  possess  either  a  brilliant 
or  inquiring  mind.  Learning  was  very  distasteful  to  him  ;  and 
Mr.  Jc  .les  had  to  repeat  his  instructions  so  often,  that  it  ena- 
bli^d  me  to  learn  them  by  heart.  Mr.  Jones  flattered  and  coaxed 
his  indolent  j.upil ;  but  could  not  induce  him  to  take  any  interest 
in  his  studies,  so  that  I  soon  shot  far  ahead  of  him,  greatly  to 
the  annoyance  of  both  master  and  pupil ;  the  former  doing  his 
best  to  throw  every  impediment  in  my  way. 

I  resented  the  injustice  of  this  conduct  with  much  warmth, 

and  told  him,   "  that  I  would  learn  in  spite  of  him ;  I  had  mas^ 

tered  the  first  rudiments  of  Latin  and  Mathematics,  and  I  could 

BOW  teach  myself  all  tnat  I  wanted  lo  know/' 

This  boost  was  rather  premature.     I  found  the  task  of  self. 


;1 


84 


¥HB      M0N0TON3. 


' 


§ 


inBtruction  less  easy  than  I  anticipated.  I  was  in  Mr.  Jones's 
power — and  he  meanly  withheld  from  me  the  books  necessary 
to  my  further  advancement. 

I  now  found  myself  at  a  stand-still.  I  threatened  Mr.  Jonea 
I  would  complain  to  my  uncle  of  his  unjustifiable  conduct. 

The  idea  seemed  greatly  to  amuse  him  and  my  cousin — they 
laughed  in  my  face,  and  dared  me  to  make  the  experiment. 

I  flew  to  my  aunt. 

She  told  me  to  be  patient  and  conceal  my  resentment  ;  and 
she  would  supply  the  books  and  stationery  I  required,  from  her 
own  parse. 

I  did  not  like  this.  I  was  a  blunt  straight-forward  boy  ;  and 
I  thought  that  my  aunt  wtt^  afraid  to  back  me  in  what  I  knew 
to  be  right.     I  told  her  so. 

"  True,  Geoflfrey.  But  in  this  house  it  is  useless  to  oppose 
force  to  force.     Your  only  safe  course  is  non-resistance." 

"  That  plan  I  never  can  adopt.  It  is  truckling  to  evil,  aunt. 
No  ultimate  good  can  spring  from  it." 

"  But  great  trouble  and  pain  may  be  avoided,  GeofiFrey." 

"  Aunt,  I  will  not  submit  to  Mr.  Jones's  mean  tyranny  ;  I 
feel  myself  aggrieved  ;  I  must  speak  out  and  have  it  off  my 
mind.  I  will  go  this  instant  to  Mr.  Moncton  and  submit  the 
case  to  him." 

"  Incur  his  displeasure — no  trifle  at  any  time,  Geoffrey — and 
have  Theophilus  and  Mr.  Jones  laughing  at  you.  They  can  tell 
your  uncle  what  story  they  please :  and  which  is  he  most  likely 
to  believe,  your  statement  br  theirs  ?" 

"  He  is  a  clever  man.  Let  them  say  what  they  like,  it  is  not 
so  easy  to  deceive  him  ;  he  will  judge  for  himself.  He  would 
know  that  I  was  in  the  right,  even  if  he  did  not  choose  to  say 
so  ;  ana  that  would  be  some  satisfaction,  although  he  might 
take  their  part." 

My  Huiit  was  surprised  at  my  boldness  ;  she  looked  aie  long 
•nd  earnestly  in  the  face. 


he 
mi 

sal 

wil 
loj 
bii 


rea 

stel 

Bno 


THE     U0NCT0N3. 


15 


B  iu  Mr.  Jones's 
books  iiecessarj 

tened  Mr.  Jones 
2  conduct, 
my  cousin — they 
experiment. 

resentment  ;  and 
sqaired,  from  her 

orward  boy  ;  and 
e  in  what  I  knew 

aseless  to  oppose 

esistance." 

ling  to  evil,  aunt. 

>d,  Geoffrey." 
mean  tyranny  ;  I 
id  have  it  off  my 
n  and  submit  the 

me,  Geoffrey— and 
ou.  They  can  tell 
1  is  he  most  likely 

they  like,  it  is  not 

limself.     He  would 

not  choose  to  say 

although  he  might 


le  looked  a»e  long 


i 


"  Geoffrey,  your  argument  is  the  best.  Honesty  is  the  right 
policy,  after  all.  I  wish  I  had  the  moral  courage  to  act  op  to 
it  at  all  times.  But,  my  dear  boy,  when  you  are  the  slave  of  a 
violent  and  deceitful  man,  your  only  chance  for  a  quiet  life  is  to 
fight  him  with  his  own  weapons." 

"Wrong  again,  aunt,"  I  cried  vehemently.  "That  would 
make  me  as  bad  as  him.  No,  no,  that  plan  would  not  do  for 
me.  I  should  betray  myself  every  minute,  and  become  con- 
temptible in  his  eyes  and  my  own.  It  strikes  me,  although  I  am 
but  a  boy  of  twelve,  and  know  little  of  the  world,  that  the  only 
real  chance  yon  have  with  such  men  is,  to  show  them  that  yoc 
are  not  afraid  of  them.  Bullies  are  al!  cowards,  aunt ;  they 
will  yield  to  courage  which  they  feel  to  be  superior  to  their 
own.  So  much  I  have  learnt  from  the  experience  of  the  last 
four  years." 

Aunt  made  no  reply;  she  smiled  sadly  and  kindly  upon  me, 
and  her  tacit  approval  sent  me  directly  to  my  uncle.  He  was 
in  his  private  office.     I  knocked  gently  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in." 

I  did  so  ;  and  thefe  I  stood,  not  a  little  confused  and  per- 
plexed  before  him,  with  flushed  cheeks  and  a  fast-throbbing 
heart.  It  was  the  first  complaint  I  had  ever  made  to  him  in 
my  life — the  first  time  I  had  ever  dared  to  enter  his  sanctum 
ianclorum ;  and  I  remained  tongue-tied  upon  the  threshold, 
without  knowing  how  Xa  begin.  I  thought  he  would  have 
looked  me  down.  I  folt  the  blood  receding  from  my  face  beneath 
his  cold  gaze,  as  he  said — 

"  Geoffrey,  what  do  you  want  here  ?" 

"  I  came,  sir,"  I  at  last  faltered  out,  "  to  make  a  complaint 
against  Mr.  Jones." 

"  I  never  listen  to  complaints  brought  by  a  pupil  against  his 
leacher,"  he  cried,  in  a  voice  that  made  me  re<'oil  over  the  door* 
step.  "  Begone,  sir  1  If  you  come  into  my  pre<!enc8  again  oo 
sack  an  errand,  I  will  spnrn  you  from  the  room." 


a< 


THE     MON'CTOXa. 


I  "'3 


This  speech,  meant  to  intimidate  me,  restored  my  courage.  1 
felt  tlie  hot  blood  rush  to  my  face  in  a  fiery  flood, 

"  Hear  me,  sir.  Did  not  you  place  me  under  his  care  in  order 
that  I  might  learn  ?" 

"And  you  refuse  to  do  so  ?" 

"  No,  sir  :  the  i-everse  is  the  case  :  he  refuses  to  teach  me, 
ftnd  deprives  me  of  my  books,  so  that  I  cannot  tcaoii  wf 

self." 

"A  very  probabU  tale,"  sneered  Mr.  Moncton  ;  then  rising 
from  the  table  at  which  he  was  seated,  he  cried  out  hastily,  "  Is 
Mr.  Jones  in  the  study  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Then,  my  new  client,  come  along  with  me.     I  will  soon 

learn  the  truth  of  your  case." 

He  clutched  me  by  the  arm,  which  he  grasped  so  tightly  that 
I  conld  scarcely  resist  a  cry  of  pain,  and  hurried  me  out.  In  the 
study  we  found  TLcophilus  and  Mr.  Jones  :  the  one  lounging  on 
two  chairs,  the  other  smoking  a  cigar  and  reading  a  novel.  Mr. 
Moncton  stoof'  for  a  moment  in  the  door-war,  regarding  the 
pair  with  his  peculiar  glance. 
.   "  Gentlemen,  you  seem  pleasantly  and  profitably  employed . 

"  Our  morning  tasks  are  concluded,"  said  Theophilus,  return- 
ing the  stare  of  scrutiny  with  a  steady  lie.  " '  Too  much  work 
would  make  Jack  a  dull  boy.' "  ^ 

His  father  smiled  grimly.    How  well  he  understood  the  char- 

acter  of  his  son. 

"  Here  is  a  lad,  Mr.  Jones,  who  complains  that  you  not  only 
refuse  to  teach  him,  but  deprive  him  of  his  books." 

"  He  tells  the  truth,  sir,"  returned  ti  at  worthy,  casting  upon 
me  a  spiteful,  sidelong  glance,  which  seemed  to  aay  more  elo- 
qnently  than  words,  "  You  shall  see,  master  Geoflfrey,  what 
you'll  get  by  tale  bearing.  I'll  match  you  yet."  "I  have 
withheld  bis  books,  and  refused  my  instructions  for  the  past 
week    as    a    punishment    for    his  insolent  and  disrespectful 


THE     UOXOTONa. 


I  mj  courage.    I 

)d. 

r  bis  care  in  order 


ses  to  teach  rae, 
annot  tcao'u  u;y 

iton  ;  then  rising 
i  oat  hastily,  "  Is 


me.    I  will  soon 

led  so  tightly  that 
!d  me  out.  In  the 
le  one  lounging  on 
ling  a  novel.  Mr. 
my,  regarding  the 

ably  employed  T* 
rheophilus,  return- 
" '  Too  much  work 

iderstood  the  char- 
that  you  not  only 
joks." 

jrthy,  casting  upon 
I  to  say  more  elo" 
ter  Geoflfrey,  what 
a  yet."  "I  have 
ctions  for  the  past 
,  and  disrespectfol 


eonduct  to  yojr  son  and  me ;  to  say  nothing  of  his  impertinent 
speeches  regarding  you,  air,  who  are  his  guardian  and  bene- 
factor." 

"  Do  you  liear  that— sirl "  said  my  uncle,  giving  me  a  vio- 
lent blow  on  my  cheek,  and  flinging  me  from  him.  "  When  next 
you  come  to  me  with  such  tales,  you  shall  not  leave  your  bed  for 
a  w    k." 

I  sprang  from  the  floor,  where  his  blow  had  sent  me  ;  and 
stood  erect  before  him.  It  was  a  ^i^ntiy  confronting  a  giant ; 
but  my  blood  was  boiling.  I  had  lost  all  control  over  myself. 
"  It  is  a  lie  !"  I  cried,  shaking  my  fist  at  Mr.  Jones.  "  A  mon- 
strous falsehood  1  He  knows  it  is.  Theophilus  knows  it  is.  I 
have  been  falsely  accused  and  unjustly  punished  ;  I  will  remem- 
ber that  blow  to  my  dying  day.  I  will  never  forget  nor  for- 
give it." 

"  And  who  cares,  my  hero,  for  your  impotent  rage? '  My  un- 
cle sei7ca  me  by  my  thick  curling  hair,  and  turned  round  my 
&ce,  hot  with  passion  and  streaming  with  tears  of  rage,  to  the 
gaze  of  my  sneering  enemies.  "  I  will  moke  you  know,  that  yon 
are  in  my  house  aud  in  my  power— and  you  s/utlt  submit  to  my 
authority,  and  the  authority  of  those  I  choose  to  place  over  you." 

I  struggled  d'isperately  in  his  herculean  grasp  in  order  to  free 
myself.  He  laughed  at  my  impotent  rage  and  then  threw  me 
on  the  floor— and  this  time,  I  was  quiet  enough. 

When  I  recovered  m-/  senses,  I  found  myself  lying  upon  the 
bed  iu  the  garret,  allotted  to  my  use.     My  aunt  was  sitting 
beside  me,  bathing  my  temples  with  vinegar  and  water,    "  Oh 
aunt,"  I  sighed,  closing  my  eyes,  "  I  wish  I  were  dead !" 

"Hush,  GeoflFrey.  Yon  brought  this  on  yourself.  I  told  yo\ 
bow  it  would  be." 

"  It  was  so  unjust,"  I  replied  with  bitterness. 

"  And  you  were  so  rash.    You  will  be  wiser  another  time." 

"  When  I  am  as  wicked  as  my  persecutors." 

"No  need  of  quoting  others,  my  son,  while  you  suffer  such  rio- 


-I 


IM 


B8 


THE     MONOTOKB. 


( 
1 

1       ' 

i    f 


lent  passions  to  master  you.  Listen  to  me,  my  child.  I  have 
known  your  uncle  for  years.  Have  seen  him  in  his  darkest  and 
stormiest  moods  ;  and  contrived  to  live  peaceably  with  him. 
Nay,  he  respects  me  more  than  he  does  any  one  else  in  the  world. 
But  I  never  opprjsed  his  wiU.  He  is  not  a  man  to  be  trifled 
with— tears  and  complaicts  are  useless.  You  cannot  touch  his 
heart.  He  wUl  be  obeyed.  Left  to  himself,  he  may  become 
your  friend,  and  even  treat  you  with  a  certain  degree  of  kind- 
ness and  consideration.  But  if  you  anger  him,  he  never  for- 
gives, and  can  be  a  dreadful  enemy.  If  you  love  me,  Geoffrey, 
follow  my  advice  and  submit  to  his  authority  with  a  good 

grace." 

"  I  will  try  not  to  hate  him  for  your  dear  sake.  I  can 
promise  no  more."  I  kissed  her  hand  and  fell  back  exhausted 
on  my  pillow.  My  head  ached  dreadfully  from  the  ill-treatment 
I  had  received  ;  and  wounded  pride  made  my  heart  very  sore. 
It  was  only  on  her  account  that  I  could  control  the  deadly  and 
revengeful  feelings  I  cherished  against  him.  Theophiliis  and 
Mr.  Jones,  I  considered  beneath  contempt. 


CHAPTER    V. 

A    CHANGE    IN    MY    PROSPECTS. 

I  WAS  surprised  at  receiving  a  message  from  Mr.  Mot  "ton, 
the  next  day,  to  attend  him  in  his  private  office.  I  went  to  him 
In  fear  and  trembling.  I  was  ill,  nervous  and  dispirited,  and 
cared  very  little  as  to  what  in  future  might  become  of  me. 

I  found  him  all  smiles  and  affability.  "  Geoffrey,"  he  said, 
hnMmir  ont  his  hand,  as  I  cnteied,  "  I  trust  you  have  received 


a 
t( 

01 

h 

ci 
to 

80 

na 
so 
de 
yo 
ofl 
do 
tw 
yo 


am 

be 

ap 

try 

1 

leai 

me 

was 

in  t 

was 

win 

the 

melt 

noti 

men 


THE     M0NCT0N8. 


89 


y  child.  I  have 
1  his  darkest  and 
ccably  with  him. 

else  in  the  world, 
lan  to  be  trifled 
cannot  touch  his 

he  may  become 
1  degree  of  kiiid- 
m,  he  never  for- 
)ve  me,  Geoffrey, 
ity  with  a  good 

ar  sake.  I  can 
i  back  exhausted 
1  the  ill-treatment 
r  heart  very  sore. 
)1  the  deadly  and 
Theophilns  and 


om  Mr.  Mot  "ton, 
ie.  I  went  to  him 
nd  dispirited,  and 
(come  of  me. 
Geoffrey,"  he  said, 
you  have  received 


a  Dseful  lesson.  Yon  will  be  wise  to  lay  it  to  heart.  Mr.  Jones 
tells  me  that  you  write  a  good  bold  hand.  Give  me  a  specimen 
of  it.  Sit  down  at  the  table,  and  direct  that  letter  to  Messieurs 
Haiibury  and  Company,  Liverpool." 

I  did  as  I  was  commanded,  but  my  hand  trembled  with  ex- 
citement :  I  found  some  difficulty  in  steadying  the  pen.  He 
took  the  letter  and  looked  at  it  carefully,  muttering  as  he  did 
so — 

"  How  like  my  father's  hand.  Aye,  and  how  like  in  obsti- 
nacy  of  purpose  ;  more  like  him  in  every  respect  than  his  own 
sons  "  Then  turning  to  me,  who  was  lost  in  wonder  at  this  sud- 
den change  in  his  manner  towards  me,  he  said,  "  This  is  well  • 
you  write  a  fair,  legible  hand  for  a  boy.  I  want  a  lad  in  my 
office  to  copy  writs  and  other  law  papers.  I  think  you  will  just 
do  for  that  purpose.  If  you  are  diligent  and  industrious,  after 
two  years'  trial,  I  will  article  you  to  myself.  How  old  are 
you  ?" 

"  Thirteen,  next  August." 

"  It's  yonng  ;  but  you  are  tall  and  manly  for  your  age.  You 
and  Theophilns  are  never  likely  to  agree  ;  it  is  best  for  you  to 
be  apart.  You  have  no  fortune  of  your  own,  I  will  give  you 
a  profession,  and  make  an  independent  man  of  you,  if  you  will 
try  for  the  future  to  be"  a  docile  and  obedient  boy." 

I  promised  to  do  my  best.  He  then  bade  me  follow  him,  and 
leading  the  way  through  a  narrow  arched  passage,  he  introduced 
me  into  the  public  office,  where  the  large  business  in  which  he 
was  engaged  was  carried  on.  Though  I  had  been  four  years 
in  the  house,  I  had  never  seen  the  inside  of  this  office  before.  It 
was  a  spacious,  dark,  dirty,  apartment,  lighted  by  high,  narrow 
windows  of  ground  glass  ;  so  that  no  time  could  be  wasted  by 
the  junior  clerks  in  looking  ont  into  the  street.  Severpl  pale, 
melancholy  men  were  seated  at  desks,  hard  at  work.  You  heard 
nothing  but  the  rapid  scratching  of  their  pens  against  the  parch- 
ment and  paper  on  which  they  wei-e  employed.     When  Mr. 


* 

4 


80 


THE     MO  NCT0N8. 


m. 


-\ii 


!!;■■* 


MonHon  entered  the  office,  a  short,  stout,  middle-aged  man 
Bwnng  himself  round  on  his  high  stool  and  fronted  us  ;  but  the 
moment  he  recognized  his  superior,  he  rose  respectfully  tu  receive 
him. 

Mr.  Moncton  took  him  apart,  and  they  entered  into  a  deep 
and  earnest  conversation :  of  which,  I  am  certain,  from  the  sig- 
ntficant  glances  which,  from  time  to  time,  they  directed  towards 
me,  I  formed  the  principal  topic. 

At  length  the  conference  was  over,  and  my  nnclo  left  the 
office  without  giving  me  a  parting  word  or  glance.  When  he 
was  fairly  out  of  hearing,  all  the  clerks  gathered  round  me. 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  Mr.  Moncton's  nephew,"  was  the  short  man's  reply  to  the 
eager  questioners. 

"  Is  he  sent  here  to  be  a  spy  ?" 

"  To  learn  the  profession." 

"That  babe !  Is  the  man  mad.  It  will  kill  the  child  to  chain 
Aim  to  the  desk  all  day." 

"  Poor  fellow ;  he  is  the  orphan  son  of  his  brother,"  said 
another.     "  1  have  seen  him  at  church  with  Mrs.  Moncton." 

"  Well,  Robert  Moncton  is  a  hard  man,"  said  a  third. 

"  Hnsh,  gentlemen,"  interposed  Mr.  Bassett,  the  senior  clerk. 
"  It  is  not  right  to  make  such  remarks  in  the  lad's  hearing.  Mr. 
Moncton,  doubtless,  does  for  the  best.  Come,  my  little  fellow, 
yon  and  I  must  be  good  friends.  Yonr  uncle  has  placed  yon 
niider-my  charge,  to  initiate  you  into  all  the  mysteries  of  the 
law.  I  have  no  doubt  we  shall  get  on  famously  together.  But 
you  must  be  diligent  and  work  hard.  Your  uncle  hates  idlers  ; 
ho  is  a  strict  master,  but  one  of  the  ablest  lawyers  in  London. 
Let  me  tell  yon,  that  to  be  articled  to  him  is  a  fortnne  in  itself." 

A  far-off,  indistinct  hope  of  freedom  through  thii.  channel, 
presented  itself  to  my  bewildered  mind.  I  thanked  Mr.  Bassett 
warmly  for  his  proffered  aid,  and  told  him  that  I  would  do  my 
best  to  deserve  his  good  opinion. 


THZ     UONCrOMB. 


SI 


niddle*aged  m6n 
ted  us  ;  but  the 
jctfully  to  receive 

tered  into  a  deep 
lin,  from  the  sig- 
directed  toward* 

ly  uncle  left  the 
lance.  When  he 
ed  round  me. 

aan's  reply  to  the 


I  the  child  to  chiun 

his  brother,"  said 
Irs.  Moncton." 
lid  a  third. 
,t,  the  senior  clerk, 
lad's  hearing.     Mr. 
le,  my  little  fellow, 
ile  has  placed  you 
le  mysteries  of  the 
isly  together.     But 
uncle  hates  idlers  ; 
lawyers  in  London, 
a  fortnne  in  itself." 
rongh  thii.  channel, 
hanked  Mr.  Bassett 
;hat  I  would  do  my 


From  that  day,  I  became  an  ofiBce  drudge,  condemned  to 
copy  the  same  unintelligible,  uninteresting  law  forms,  from  early 
morning  until  late  at  night.  Mr.  Bassett,  a  quiet,  methodical, 
business  man,  was  kind  in  his  own  peculiar  way.  He  bad  a 
large  family,  and  perhaps  felt  a  paternal  sympathy  in  my  early 
introduction  to  the  labors  and  cares  of  life.  He  often  com- 
m(MideU  my  diligence,  and  mentioned  me  in  very  handsome  terms 
to  Mr.  Moncton  ;  but  from  that  gentleman  I  never  received  a 
word  of  praise— weeks  and  montlis  often  passed  without  his 
speaking  to  me.  I  was  even  debarred  from  spending  with  my 
dear  aunt  that  blessed  twilight  hour,  which  had  proved  the 
chief  solace  of  my  weacy  life. 

Constant  confinement  to  that  close  office  preyed  npon  my 
health  and  spirits  ;  I  became  fretful  and  irritable,  the  colo.  hit 
my  cheeks,  and  my  eyes  looked  dull  and  heavy.  The  clerks, 
mostly  kind  to  me,  all  pitiei  je,  though  they  dared  not  openly 
show  their  regard.  They  brought  me  presents  of  fruit  and 
sweetmeats,  and  one  who  lived  in  the  suburbs  used  to  deliglit 
my  heart,  every  now  and  then,  with  a  r  •;.  uquet  of  flowers. 
Their  beauty  and  perfume  brought  back  a  glimpse  of  the  old 
times — dim  visions  of  lawns  and  gardens,  of  singing-birds  and 
humming-bees ;  of  a  fair  smiling  creature  who  led  me  by  the 
hand  through  those  bowers  of  enchantment,  and  called  me  her 
GeoflFrey — her  darling  boy. 

When  such  thoughts  came  over  me,  my  hand  trembled,  and  I 
could  not  see  the  parchment  I  was  copying  through  my  tears  ; 
but  for  all  that,  the  sight  of  the  flowers  was  always  inexpressi- 
bly dear,  and  I  prized  them  beyond  every  other  gift. 

I  had  been  about  eighteen  months  in  the  office,  when  my  good 
Aunt  Rebecca  died— an  event  sudden  and  unexpected  by  all. 
I  was  allowed  to  see  her  in  her  last  moments  ;  to  sob  out  my 
full  heart  by  her  death-bed.  Her  last  word.<<  were  an  earnest 
request  to  her  husband  to  be  kind  to  poor  Geoffrey,  for  her  sake 
—she  died— and  I  felt  myself  alone  and  friendless  iu  the  world. 


i 


f. 


51 


82 


THE     HONCTONS. 


d 

c: 
ti 


CHAPTER    VI.       • 

THE     SORROWS     OF     DEPEND E NCR.    ' 

My  heart  sickens  over  this  dreary  portion  of  my  childhood. 
I  have  heard  it  called  the  ha|)pie8t  season  of  Mfe.  To  me  it  had 
few  joys.  It  was  a  gloomy  period  of  mental  suffering  and  bodily 
fatigue  ;  of  unnatural  restraint  and  painful  probation. 

The  cold,  authoritative  manner  of  my  uncle,  at  all  times 
irksome  and  repelling,  after  the  deatli  of  liis  good  wife  became 
almost  insupportable  ;  while  the  insolence  and  presumption  of 
his  artful  son,  goaded  a  free  and  irascible  spirit  like  mine 
almost  to  madness.  The  moral  force  of  his  mother's  character, 
though  unappreciated  by  him,  had  been  some  restraint  upon  his 
unamiable,  tyrannical  temper.  Tliat  restraint  was  now  removed, 
and  Theophilus  considered  that  my  dependent  situation  gave 
him  a  lawful  right  to  my  sei  vices,  and  had  I  been  a  work-house 
apprentice  in  his  father's  house,  he  could  not  have  given  his 
commands  with  an  air  of  more  pointed  insolence.  My  obstinate 
resistance  to  his  authority,  and  my  desperate  struggles  to  eman- 
cipate myself  from  his  control,  produced  a  constant  war  of 
words  between  us  ;  and  if  I  appealed  to  my  uncle,  1  was  sure  to 
get  the  worst  of  it.  He  did  not  exactly  encourage  his  son  in 
this  ungenerous  line  of  conduct,  but  his  great  maxim  was  to 
divide  and  rule ;  to  exact  from  all  who  were  dependent  upon 
him,  the  most  uncompromising  obedience  to  his  arbitrary  will  ; 
and  he  laughed  at  my  remonstrances,  and  turned  my  indignation 
into  ridicule. 

I  was  daily  reminded,  particularly  before  strangers,  of  the 


ft 
ra 
h( 
n( 
re 

re 

st 
ni 
hi 

01 

fr 
m 

ca 
of 

80 
tfa 

G 

CO 

ce 
Tl 
bi 
he 
at 
bi 
nc 
dc 


■^ 


THE     tfONOTONS. 


88 


rcB.  ' 

)f  my  childhood. 

I.     To  me  it  had 

ering  and  bodily 

tatioii. 

le,  ut  all   times 

;ood  wife  became 

presumption  of 
spirit  like  miue 
ither's  character, 
estraiiit  upon  his 
as  now  removed, 
i;  situation  gavo 
;en  a  work-house 
;  have  given  his 
!.  My  obstinate 
ruggles  to  eman- 
constaut  war  of 
;le,  1  was  sure  to 
urage  his  sou  in 
t  maxim  was  to 

dependent  upon 
is  arbitrary  will  ; 
sd  my  indignation 

strangers,  of  the 


domestic  calamities  that  liad  made  me  dependent  upon  his  cold, 
extorted  charity  ;  wliile  I  was  reproached  with  my  want  of  gra- 
titude to  a  cruel  master. 

'Passion  and  wounded  pride  drew  from  me  burning  tears.  I 
felt  that  I  was  growing  fierce  and  hard  like  my  persecutors,  and 
my  conscience,  yet  tender,  deplored  the  lamentable  change.  My 
hea  t,  crushed  beneath  the  sense  of  injustice  and  unmerited 
neglect,  was  closed  against  the  best  feelings  of  humanity,  and  I 
regarded  my  fellow  men  with  aversion  and  mistrust. 

These  bitter  and  desponding  feelings  deprived  my  nights  of 
rest — my  days,  of  hope.  When  the  morning  came  and  I  took  my 
stand  at  the  accursed  desk,  I  wished  the  day  gone  ;  and  when 
night  released  mo  from  the  abhorrent  task,  and  I  sought  my 
humble  garret,  I  sat  for  liour?  at  the  open  window,  brooding 
over  my  wrongs.  , 

The  moonbeams  glittered  in  the  tea's  that  anguish  wrung 
from  my  uptured  eyes.  The  stars  seemed  to  look  down  upon 
me  with  compassionate  earnestness.  Sometimes  my  young  spirit, 
carried  away  by  the  intense  love  I  felt  for  those  beautiful  eyes 
of  heaven,  forgot  for  awl-ile  the  sorrows  and  cares  of  life  and 
soared  far,  far  away  to  seek  for  sympathy  and  affectioa  in 
those  unknown  regions  of  light  and  purity. 

I  had  few  opportunities  of  religious  instruction  in  this  truly 
Godless  household.  My  uncle  never  attended  church  when  ho 
could  avoid  the  obligation,  and  then,  only  to  keep  up  appearan- 
ces. A  religion  of  the  world — in  which  the  heart  had  no  part. 
There  was  always  a  Bible  in  the  oEBce,  but  it  was  never  nsed, 
but  in  the  way  of  business  to  administer  oaths.  Whenever  I 
had  a  noment's  leisure  I  h"''  *Ui'ned  over  the  pages  with  eager 
and  m;  sterious  curiosity,  but  the  knowledge  that  should  harj 
brought  peace  and  comfort,  and  reconciled  me  to  my  dreary  lot, 
not  being  sought  for  in  the  right  spirit,  added  to  my  present 
despondency,  the  dread  of  future  punishment. 

Oh,  that  awfuWear  of  lloll.  How  it  darkened  with  ita 
"^  2* 


14 


11  , 


THE     MONCTONB. 

nuholy  shadow,  alt  that  whs  bright  and  beautiful  in  thia  lower 
world. 

I  had  yet  to  learn,  that  perfect  love  caateth  out  fear,  that  the 
great  Father  punitiliefi  but  to  reform,  and  is  ever  mure  willing 
to  save  than  to  condemn.  I  dared  not  seek  him,  lest  I  should 
bear  the  terrible  deuuneiaaon  thundered  against  the  wicked : 
"  Depart  from  me,  ye  cursed." 

A  firm  trust  in  Uiu  protecting  cnre  would  have  been  a  balm 
for  every  wound,  that  festered  and  ruiiklud  at  my  heart's  core. 
Had  thu  Christian's  hope  been  mine,  1  should  no  longer  have 
pined  under  that  dreary  sense  of  utter  loneliness,  whicii  for  many 
years  paralyzed  all  mental  exer'.ioiis,  or  nurtured  in  my  breust 
the  stern  unforgiving  temper  which  madu  me  regard  my  persecu- 
tors with  feelings  of  determined  hate. 

K^iding  in  the  centre  of  the  busy  metropolis,  and  at  an  age 
when  the  heart  sighs  for  social  cummuuioii  with  its  fellows,  and 
imagmes,  with  the  fond  sincerity  of  inexperienced  youth,  a  friend 
in  every  agreeable  companion,  I  was  immured  umung~old  parch- 
ments and  dusty  records,  and  seldom  permitted  to  mmgle  with 
the  guests  that  frequented  ray  uncle's  house,  unless  my  presence 
was  required  to  sign  some  official  document. 

Few  persons  suspected  that  the  shabbily-dressed  silent  youth 
who  obeyed  Mr.  Moncton's  imperious  mandates  was  his  nephew — 
the  only  son  of  an  elder  brother — consequently  I  was  treated  as 
nobody  by  his  male  visitors,  and  never  noticed  nt  all  by  the 
ladies. 

This  was  mortifying  enough  to  a  tall  lad  of  eighteen,  who 
already  fancied  himself  a  man.  Who,  though  meanly  dressed, 
and  sufliciently  awkward,  had  enough  of  vanity  in  his  composi- 
tion to  imagine  that  his  person  would  create  an  interosi  m  his 
behalf  and  atone  for  all  other  deficiencies,  at  least  in  ihc  eyes 
of  the  rentier  sex — those  angels,  who  seen  at  a  distance,  were 
daily  becoming  objects  of  admiration  and  worship. 

Alas  !  poor  Geoffrey     Thou  didst  not  know  in  that  thy  young 


di 

in 
Ri 
w 

k( 
U 

th 

0(1 

Wl 
Wl 

th 
tfa 

g« 
fe 

P« 

hi 
lo 
hii 

pa 
hi, 

Wl 

fai 
sU 
kii 
in( 

an 

Wl 

foi 
M 

he 


iful  in  thi8  lower 

}ut  foar,  that  the 
ver  mure  willing 
liiiu,  lest  I  should 
liuBt  the  wicked : 

iiave  been  a  balm 
,  my  heart's  core, 
d  no  longer  have 
8,  which  fur  many 
ured  in  uiy  breast 
igard  my  persecu- 

iliH,  and  at  an  age 
th  its  Tellows,  and 
ed  youth,  a  fi'ieud 
amung~old  parch- 
:ed  to  mmgle  with 
inless  my  presence 

issed  silent  youth 
1  was  his  nephew — 
J  I  was  treated  as 
:ed  nt  all  by  the 

,  of  eighteen,  who 
h  meanly  dressed, 
ity  in  his  coniposi- 
3  an  interosi  iii  his 
it  least  in  ilie  eyes 
,t  a  distanctj,  were 
i;iii|). 
1  iu  that  thy  young 


THE    MVNOTON  1.  W 

day  the  thingfl  pertaining  to  thy  peace.  Thou  didst  not  suspect 
in  thy  innocence  how  the  black  brand  of  poverty  can  deform  the 
finest  face,  and  dhn  the  brightest  intellect  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world. 

Among  all  rny  |)etty  trials  there  were  none  that  I  felt  more 
keenly  than  having  to  wear  the  cast-off  clothes  of  my  cousin. 
He  was  some  years  older,  but  his  frame  was  slighter  and  shorter 
than  mine,  and  his  garments  did  not  fit  me  in  any  way.  The 
coat  sleeves  were  short  and  tight,  and  the  truwsers  came  half* 
way  up  my  legs.  The  figure  I  cut  in  theso  unsuitable  garments 
was  so  ludicrous  that  it  was  a  standing  joke  among  the  clerks  ia 
the  office. 

"  When  you  step  into  yonir  cousin's  shoes,  GeoSVey,  we  bope 
they  will  suit  you  better  than  his  clothes." 

I  could  have  been  happy  in  the  coarsest  fustian  or  corderoj 
garment  that  I  knew  was  my  own.  I  believe  Robert  Moucton 
felt  a  malicious  pleasure  in  humbling  me  in  the  eyes  of  Us 
people. 

My  uncle  had  fulfilled  his  promise,  and  I  had  been  articled  to 
him,  when  I  completed  my  fourteenth  year  ;  and  I  now  eagerlj 
looked  forward  to  my  majority,  when  I  should  be  free  to  quit 
his  employ,  and  seek  a  living  in  the  world. 

My  time  had  been  so  completely  engaged  in  copying  law 
papers,  that  I  had  not  been  able  to  pay  much  attention  to  the 
higher  branches  of  the  profession  ;  and  when  night  came,  and  I 
was  at  length  released  from  the  desk,  I  was  so  overpowered  by 
fatigue  that  I  felt  no  inclination  to  curtail  the  blessed  honrs  of 
sleep  by  reading  dull  law  books.  Yet,  npon  this  all-important 
knowledge,  which  I  was  neglecting,  rested  my  only  chance  of 
independence. 

My  cousin  Theoplilus  was  pursuing  his  studies  at  Oxford, 
and  rarely  visited  h.ime,  but  spent  his  vacations  with  some 
wealthy  relatives  in  Yorkshire.  This  was  a  happy  time  for  vm  ; 
for  of  all  my  many  trials  his  presence  was  the  greatest.  Even 
Mr.  Moucton  was  more  civil  to  me  iu  the  absence  of  his  bopefol 
heir. 


■A 
i 


I« 


THE     MONOTO  N  «. 


Thus  time  glided  on  until  I  was  twenty  yeuiH  of  uko,  and  full 
six  feet  in  height,  and  I  could  uo  longer  wear  tlie  ca8t-<jtt"  .suits 
of  uiy  couHin.  Mr.  Moncton,  iu  eoiuuion  decency,  was  at  length 
obliged  to  order  my  clothes  of  his  tailor  ;  but  he  took  good  car* 
that  they  should  be  of  the  coorsest  description,  and  of  the  most 
u.if.ishionuble  cut.  The  lirst  suit  that  was  made  expressly  for 
ute,  ridiculous  as  it  must  appear  to  my  readers,  gave  me  intinite 
Biitisfttclion.     I  felt  proud  and  hapi)y  of  the  acquisition. 

The  afternoon  of  that  memorable  day,  my  uncle  sent  for  me 
iuto  the  drawing-loom  to  witness  the  transfer  of  some  law 
papers.  His  clienU  wore  two  ladies,  young  and  agreeable. 
While  I  was  writing  from  Mr.  Monctoii's  dictation,  I  per- 
ceived, with  no  small  degree  of  trepidation,  that  the  younger 
was  regarding  me  with  earnest  attention  ;  and  in  spite  of  myself 
injr  tiheelts  flushed  and  my  hand  trembled.  After  my  part  of 
the  business  was  conclnded  Mr.  Moncton  told  me  ro  withdraw. 
A«  I  left  the  room,  1  heard  Miss  Miiry  Beaumont  siiy,  in  a  low 
voice  to  her  sister — my  uncle  having  stepped  into  the  uiljoiniug 
apartment : — 
■  "  What  a  handsome  yonng  man.  Who  is  he7" 
.  "  Oh,  the  clerk,  of  course." 

"  He  looks  a  gentleman." 

"  A  porsoa  of  no  consequence,  by  his  shabby  drei*  and 
awkward  manners." 

1  closed  the  door,  and  walked  hastily  away.  How  I  despised 
the  new  suit,  of  which,  a  few  minutes  before,  I  had  felt  so 
proad.  The  remarks  of  the  younger  lady  tingled  in  my  ears 
for  weeks.  She  had  considered  me  worth  looking  at,  in  spite 
of  my  unfashionable  garments  ;  and  I  blessed  her  for  the 
amiable  condescension,  and  thought  her  in  return  as  beautiful 
as  an  angel.  I  never  saw  her  again — but  I  caught  myself 
scribbling  her  name  on  my  desk,  and  I  covered  many  sheets  of 
waale  paper  with  indifferent  rhymes  in  her  praise. 

This  confession  may  call  up  a  smile  on  the  lip  of  the  reader, 
aud  I  am  content  that  he  should  acicuso  me  of  vanity.    Bat 


tbi 

rei 

»!in 

mil 

to 

J 

wei 

and 

eHt( 

wlu 

The 

liim 

V 

that 

high 

laug 

H 

good 

He  ; 

had 

lodgi 

Uoin 

ever 

of  to 

H( 

"C 

aside- 

uttnci 

I'iited 

men  t 

Tor  tr 

iiere. 

for  it 

clear- 


.^:M:-fJ:.-^ 


\ 


THE     II0NCT0N8 


»t 


I  of  ttj^o,  and  full 
llie  cuHt-oQ'  suits 
.7,  WU8  at  leiiijth 
c  tuok  Koud  cure 
and  of  the  most 
ide  exprosaly  for 
gave  mo  iuttnite 
iii8itioii. 

iiele  sent  for  me 
ir  of  some  law 
uiid  ugrceublo. 
ictutiui),  I  pur- 
lat  the  younger 
fi  Hpite  of  myself 
'tor  my  part  of 
lie  to  withdraw. 
lit  siiy,  in  a  low 
tu  the  udjuiniiig 

7" 


ibby  dret*  and 

How  I  despised 
,  I  had  felt  so 
!;led  in  my  ears 
nng  at,  in  spite 
ed  her  for  the 
ini  as  beautiful 
ctmj^ht  myself 
many  sheets  of 
e. 

p  of  the  reader, 
>f  vanity.     Bat 


\ 


these  wore  the  first  words  of  eommendutiou  that  had  ever 
naehed  n.y  ears  from  the  lips  of  woman,  and  thoi.Kl.  1  have 
^2  ;"«lu-d  iu-artily  at  the  deep  impression  they  made  on  ruy 
unnd,  they  produced  a  beneficial  eiTuct  at  the  time,  and  helped 
to  reconcile  me  to  my  lot.  ' 

It  was  about  this  period,  that  Mr.  Ba.sett  left  the  office,  and 
went  into  the  profession  on  his  ow„  account.  The  want  of  „  e«ns 
"..|1  marrying  imprudently  in  early  life,  had  hindered  hiu.  f  om 
entenng  u  sooner.  For  twenty  years  he  had  worked  as  a  cleT 
w  ..n  he  was  f  Uly  qualified  tojmve  been  the  head  of  the  ,  m! 
it'o  death  of  an  ..ncle  who  left  him  a  small  property  unchained 
•h.u  from  the  oar,  u.d  as  he  said,  '■  Made  a  man  'of  hi...  at  laT" 
oor  l.ttle  man.  I  ....v.,r  shall  fo.-get  his  joy  when  he  got 
1..  t  .mpo..u,.t  letter.  He  sprang  fom  his  d.sk,  upsetting  .he 
"Kh  «tuo|  ,0  hi«  h„,te,and  shook  hands  with  ui  all  round 
laughmg  and  crying  alternately. 

Ue  was  a  great  favorite  in  the  office,  and  wo  all  rejoice.!  in  his 
good  fortune,  though  i  felt  si,.cerely  grieved  at  parting  wi.h  him. 
He  had  been  «  kind  friend  to  me  when  I  had  no  frieuds  ;  and  I 
md  spent  some  quietly  happy  evenings  with  him  at  his  humble 
ociffings.  m  the  company  of  a  very  pretty  and  amiable  wife 
Uoing  to  visit  him  occasionally,  was  the  only  indulgence  I  had 
ever  been  allowed,  and  these  visits  were  not  permitted  to  be 
01  too  frequent  recurrence. 
He  saw  how  much  I  was  affected  at  bidding  him  good-bye. 
Geoffrey,"  he  said,  taking  me  by  the  hand  and  drawing  me 
aside-"  One  word  with   you   before   we   part.     I  know  vour 
"t  achment  to  me  is  sincere.     Believe  me,  the  feeling  is  recinro- 
.•ated  ■„  ,ts  fullest  extent.     Your  uncle  is  not  your  friend.     Few 
-non  act  wickedly  without  a  motive.     He  has  his  own  reasons 
|or  treating  you  as  he  does.     I  cannot  enter  into  particulars 

r^;  ^''Jf^  ^'  '"'''  ^f  t'">?  and  opportunity  warranted, 
tor  It  would  do  no  good.  Keep  your  eyes  „pen,  your  head 
clear-your  temper  cool,  and  your  tongue  silent,  and  you  will 


THE    HON  CTONg 


see  and  learn  much  without  the  inttrference  of  a  second  person. 
I  am  going  to  open  an  office  in  Nottingham,  my  native  town, 
and  if  ever  you  want  a  friend  in  the  hour  of  need,  come  to 
Jdaiah  Bassett  in  the  full  confidence  of  affection,  and  I  will  help 

you." 

This  speech  roused  all  my  curiosity.  I  pressed  him  eagerly  to 
tell  me  all  be  knew  respecting  me  and  my  uncle,  but  he  refused 
to  satisfy  my  earnest  inquiries. 

The  departure  of  Mr.  Bassett,  which  I  regarded  as  a  Cila 
mity,  proved  one  of  the  most  fortpnate  events  in  my  life. 

His  place  was  supplied  by  a  gentleman  of  the  name  of 
Harrison,  who  was  strongly  recommended  to  Mr.  Moncton  by 
his  predecessor  as  an  excellent  writer,  a  man  well  versed  in  the 
law,' sober  and  industrious,  and  in  whose  integrity  he  might 
place  the  utmost  reliance.  He  had  no  wish  to  enter  into  the 
profession,  but  only  sought  to  undertake  the  management  of  the 
office  as  head  clerk. 

Mr.  Moiicton  was  a  man  that  never  associated  himself  with  a 
partner,  and  regarded  despotic  rule  as  the  only  one  that  deserved 

the  name. 

When  Mr.  Harrison  was  introduced  in  propriA  persond,  he  did 
not  seem  to  realize  his  employer's  expectations— who.  from  Mr. 
Bassett's  description,  had  evidently  looked  for  an  older  and  more 
methodical  person,  and  was  disappointed  in  the  young  and  inter- 
esting  individual  that  presented  himself.  But  as  he  reqmred 
only  a  moderate  salary  for  his  services,  he  was  engaged  on  trial 
for  the  next  three  months. 


t  second  person. 

ny  native  town, 

f  need,  come  to 

and  I  will  help 

d  him  eagerly  to 
!,  but  he  refused 

irded  as  a  citla 
n  my  life, 
of  the  name  of 
Mr.  Moncton  by 
ell  versed  in  the 
;egrity  he  might 
to  enter  into  the 
anagement  of  the 

ed  himself  with  a 
one  that  deserved 

•id  'pcrson&,  he  did 
s — who,  from  Mr. 
Ein  older  and  more 
J  young  and  inter- 
it  as  he  required 
F  engaged  on  trial 


CHAPTER    VII. 


GEORGE    HARRISON. 


Qeoroe  Harrison  was  not  distinguished  by  any  remarkable 
talents;  or  endowed  with  that  aspiring  genius  thaf  forces  its 
way  through  every  obstacle,  and  places  the  possessor  above  the 
ordinary  mass  with  whom  he  is  daily  forced  to  associate. 

Yet,  his  was  no  common  character  ;  no  every  day  acquaint- 
ance,  with  whom  we  may  spend  a  pleasant  hour,  and  care  not  if 
we  ever  meet  again  in  our  journey  through  life. 

The  moment  he  entered  the  office  my  heart  was  drawn  towards 
him  by  an  irresistible,  mysterious  impulse,  so  that  looking  upon 
him  I  loved  him,  and  felt  co.ntident  that  the  friend  whom  I  had 
ardently  wished  to  obtain  for  so  many  hopeless  years,  was  now 
before  me. 

This  impression  was  strengthened  by  the  simple,  unaffected, 
frank  manner  in  which  he  met  the  advances  of  the  other  clerks. 
There  was  a  charm  in  his  smile,  in  the  rich  tones  of  his  deep 
mellow  voice,  that  made  me  anxious  to  catch  the  one,  and  hear 
the  other  again,  though  both  were  marked  by  quiet,  subdued 
■adness. 

His  face,  strictly  speaking,  could  not  be  called  handsome ; 
and  his  general  appearance  was  more  Remarkable  for  a  refined 
and  gentlemanly  demeanor,  than  for  anything  particulariy  strik- 
ing m  form  or  feature.  A  good  head,  fine  intelligent  hazel  eyes 
and  a  profusion  of  curiing  dark  brown  hair,  redeemed  his  coun' 
teuauce  from  mediocrity  ;  but  its  careworn,  anxious  expression, 


THB     H0NCTOK8. 


showed  too  clearly,  that  sOme  great  life-sorrow,  had  blighted  the 
early  promise  of  youth  and  hope. 

It  was  some  days  before  I  had  an  opportunity  of  becoming 
better  acquainted  with  him.  We  were  preparing  for  the  spring 
assizes,  and  there  was  work  enough  in  the  office  to  have  em- 
ployed twice  the  number  of  hands.  Nothii.ir  was  heard 
but  the  scratching  of  pens  upon  paper,  from  early  day  until 
midnight. 

At  last  the  hurry  was  over,  and  we  had  more  leisure  to  look 
about  us.  Mr.  Moncton  was  attending  a  country  circuit,  and 
his  watchful  eye  was  no  longer  upon  us.  The  clerks  were  absent 
at  dinner  ;  Mr.  Harrison  and  I  were  alone  in  the  office,  which 
he  never  left  till  six,  when  he  returned  to  his  lodgings  in  Char- 
lotte street  to  dine  ;  and  unless  there  happened  to  be  a  great 
stress  of  business  which  required  his  presence,  wo  saw  him  no 
more  that  night. 

After  regarding  me  for  some  minutes  with  an  earnest  scrutiny 
which,  impulsive  creature  that  1  was,  almost  offended  me,  ho 
said — 

"  Am  I  ulistaken,  or  is  your  name  rtally  Moncton  ?" 

"Really  and  truiy,  Geoffrey  Moncton,  at  your  service. 
What  made  you  doubt  the  fact  ?" 

"  I  had  always  heard  that  Mr.  Robert  Moncton  had  but  one 

son." 

"  Surely  there  is  enough  of  the  breed,  without  your  wishing 
to  affiliate  me  upon  him.  I  Batter  myself  that  we  do  not  in  the 
least  resemble  each  other.  And  as  to  the  name,  I  have  so  little 
respect  for  it,  for  his  sake,  that  I  wish  some  one  would  leave  p  e 
a  fortune  to  change  it ;  for,  between  ourselves,  I  have  smull 
reason  to  love  it.  He  is  my  uncle— my  father's  younger  brother 
^and  I  find  the  relationship  near  enough." 

This  explanation  led  to  a  brief  sketch  of  my  painful,  though 
uneventful  1  dtory,  to  which  Mr.  Harri&on  listened  v/'h  an  air 
<rf  such  intense  interest  that,  though  it  flattered  my  vanity,  not 


THE     UONCTONI, 


41 


V,  had  blighted  the 

tunity  of  becoming 
ring  for  the  spring 
office  to  have  eni- 
)thii.;jr  was  heard 
m  early  day  until 

ore  leisure  to  look 
lountry  circuit,  and 
clerks  were  absent 
in  the  office,  which 
3  lodgings  in  Char- 
ened  to  be  a  great 
ce,  wo  saw  him  no 

an  earnest  scrntiny 
>st  offended  me,  ho 

[oncton  ?" 
at    your    service. 

oncton  had  but  one 

ithont  your  wishing 
at  we  do  not  iu  the 
une,  I  have  so  little 
one  would  leave  v  e 
lelves,  I  have  smull 
er's  younger  brother 

my  painful,  though 
listened  \>  'h  an  air 
*red  ray  vanity,  not 


I  little  surprised  me.     When  I  concluded,  he  grasped  my  hand 
rmly,  muttering  to  himself— 
"  It  is  like  him— just  like  him.     The  iniernal  scoundrel !" 
'I  What  do  you  know  about  him  ?"  eaid  I,  astonished  at  the 
e..  cited  state  into  which  my  revelation."  had  thrown  him. 

"  Only  too  much,"  he  responded,  with  a  heavy  sigh  ;  and 
Biii.iing  back  in  his  chair,  pressed  his  hands  to  his  head,  like  one 
w»M)  wished  to  shut  out  painful  recollections,  while  1  continued 
to  ifTasp  his  arm  and  stare  at  him  in  blank  amazement.  At 
len>:th,  rouging  himself,  he  said  with  a  faint  smile,— 

Dofi't  make  big  eyes  at  me,  Geoffrey.  I  cannot  tell  you  all 
yoi  *i8h  to  know.  At  some  other  time,  and  in  some  other 
piacc,  I  will  repay  the  confidence  you  have  reposed  In  me,  and 
satisfy  your  queries  ;  but  not  here— not  in  the  lion's  den," 

"  For  heaven's  snke,  don't  keep  silent  now,"  I  cried.  "  Yoa 
have  roused  my  curiosity  to  such  an  extravagant  pitch,  that  I 
shall  go  mad  if  you  hold  your  tongue.     You  must  speak  out." 

"  I  must  not,  if,  by  so  doing,  I  ruin  your  prospects  and  mj 
own.  Be  satisfied,  Geoffrey,  that  I  am  your  friend  ;  that  hence- 
forth I  will  regard  you  as  a  brother,  and  do  all  in  my  power  to 
lighten  and  shorten  your  present  bondage." 

"I  threw  myself  by  an  irrepressible  impulse  into  his  arms. 
He  pressed  me  to  his  heart ;  and  the  generous  assurance  he 
gave  me  of  a  warm  and  affectionate  sympathy  in  my  destiny, 
nearly  atoned  for  twenty  years  of  sorrow  and  degradation.    The 
intense  desire  I  felt  to  deserve  his  esteem,  made  me  anxious  to 
cuhivate  my  mind,  which  I  had  suffered  to  lie  waste.     Harrison 
kindly  offered  his  aid,  and  supplied  me  with  books.      I  now 
devoted  myself  with  zeal  to  the  task  ;  for  the  first  time  I  had  a 
motive  for  exertion  ;  I  no  longer  vegetated  ;  I  had  a  friend, 
and  my  real  life  commenced  from  i!?at  day.     I  set  apart  two 
hours  each  night  for  reading  a.id  study,  end  soon  felt  a  keen 
relish  for  the  employment. 
"  In  these  lie  your  best  hope  of  independence,  Geoffrey,"  aaid 


•^'M 


49 


THK    MONOTOMS. 


114- 


iny  kind  friend,  laying  his  hand  upon  a  pile  of  books,  which,  or 
lack  of  a  table,  he  placed  upon  the  truck  bed  in  my  mean  garrev. 
Then  seating  himself  beside  me  on  the  shabby  couch,  ho  pro- 
ceeded  to  examine,  by  the  light  of  a  miserable  tallow  candle,  a 
translation  I  had  been  making  from  the  Orations  of  Cicero. 
"  With  your  talents,  Geoffrey,  you  need  not  fear  the  tyranny  of 
any  man.  It  will  be  your  own  fault  if  you  do  not  rise  in  the 
profession  you  have  chosen." 

"  The  choice  was  none  of  mine." 

"  Then  be  grateful  to  your  uncle  for  once,  in  having  chosen  it 

for  you." 
"Do  you  expect  impossibilities  ?"  and  I  smiled  bitterly. 
"  Not  exactly.  Yet,  Geoffrey,  many  things  that  appear  at 
first  Bight  impossible,  only  require  a  series  of  persevering  efforts 
to  become  both  easy  and  practicable.  You  might  render  your 
unpleasant  position  with  your  uncle  more  tolerable,  by  yielding 
to  his  authority  with  a  better  grace.  The  constant  opposition 
you  make  to  his  wishes,  is  both  useless  and  dangerous.  Though 
you  neither  love  nor  respect  him,  and  I  should  be  sorry  if  you 
could  do  either,  yet,  he  is  entitled  to  obedience,  and  a  certain 
degree  of  deference  as  your  guardian  and  master." 

"  I  never  can  willingly  obey  him,"  I  cried,  angrily,  "  or  bring 
my  mind  to  submit  to  his  authority." 

'•  In  which,  I  assure  you,  as  a  friend,  you  are  wrong.  A  s  long 
as  his  commands  do  not  interfere  with  any  moral  obligation,  you 
are  bound  to  listen  to  them  with  respect." 

"  The  man  has  always  been  my  enemy,  and  would  you  have 
me  become  a  passive  instrument  in  his  hands  ?" 

"  Certainly,  as  long  as  you  remain  his  clerk,  and  he  does  not 
require  your  aid  in  any  villainous  transaction.  If  his  intentions 
towards  you  are  evil,  you  cannot  frustrate  them  better  than  by 
doing  your  duty.  Believe  me,  Geoffrey,  you  have  a  more  danp 
gerous  enemy  to  contend  with,  one  bound  to  you  by  nearer  ties, 
who  exercises  a  more  pernicious  influence  over  your  mind." 


Geol 


frieni 


parcl 
for  tl 


'   H« 


THE     MONCTONS. 


48 


f  books,  which,  'or 
in  my  mean  garrev. 
ibby  couch,  ho  pro* 
)le  tallow  candlo,  a 
)rationB  of  Cicero, 
rear  the  tyranny  of 
1  do  not  rise  in  the 


in  having  chosen  it 

liled  bitterly, 
gs  that  appear  at 
persevering  efforts 
might  render  your 
)lerable,  by  yielding 
constant  opposition 
iangerous.  Though 
uld  be  sorry  if  yoa 
lience,  and  a  certain 
stnr." 
,  angrily,  "  or  bring 

ire  wrong.  As  long 
loral  obligation,  yoa 

md  would  you  have 

8?" 

rk,  and  he  does  not 
a.  If  his  intentions 
them  better  than  by 
lU  have  a  more  daop 
9  you  by  nearer  ties, 
lev  your  miud." 


"  His  sordid,  selfish,  counterpart — his  worthy  son  ?" 
George  shook  his  head. 
I  looked  inquiringly. 

"A  certain  impetuous,  willful,  wrong-headed  boy,  yclept 
Geoffrey  Monctou." 

"  Pish  I"  I  exclaimed,  shrugging  my  shoulders  ;  "  is  this  your 
friendship  ?" 

"  The  best  proof  I  can  give  you  of  it." 

I  walked  hastily  to  and  fro,  the  narrow  limits  of  the  chamber, 
raising,  at  every  step,  a  cloud  of  dust  from  folds  of  old,  yellow 
parchment  and  musty  rolls  of  paper,  that  had  accumulated  there 
for  the  last  half  century,  and  lay  in  a  pile  upon  the  floor.  I  was 
ill  no  humor  to  listen  to  a  lecture,  particularly  when  my  own 
faulty  temper  was  to  be  the  principal  subject,  and  form  the  text. 
Harrison  watohed  my  movements  for  some  time  in  silence,  with 
a  provokiugly^amused  air  ;  not  in  the  least  discouraged  by  my 
wayward  mood  ;  but  evidently  ready  for  another  attack. 

"  Frithee,  Geoffrey,  leave  off  raising  that  cloud  of  d  "t.  dis- 
turbing the  evil  spirits  that  have  long  slumbered  in  yon  forgot* 
ten  pile  of  professional  rubbish,  and  sit  down  quietly  and  listen 
to  reason." 

I  felt  annoyed,  and  would  not  resume  my  place  beside  him, 
but,  assuming  a  very  stately  air,  seated  myself  opposite  to  my 
tormentor  on  a  huge  iron  chest,  which  was  the  only  seat,  save 
the  bed,  in  the  room  ;  and  then,  fixing  my  eyes  reproachfully 
upon  him,  I  sat  as  stiff  as  a  poker,  without  relaxing  a  muscle  of 
my  face. 
He  laughed  outright. 

"  You  are  displeased  with  my  bluntness,  Geoffrey,  and  I  am 
amused  with  your  dignity.  That  solemn,  proud  face  would 
become  the  Lord  Chancellor  of  England." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  you  tormenting  wretch  ;  I  won't  be 
laughed  at  in  this  absurd  manner.  What  have  I  doue  to  deserve 
such  a  sermon  ?" 


u 


THE     M  0  N  0  T  O  V  a  . 


"  '  Vanity,  vanity,  all  is  vanity,  saitli  the  preacher,'  and  surely, 
Geoffrey,  your  vanity  exceeds  all  other  vanity.  I  hint  at  a 
fiiult,  and  point  it  out  for  correction.  You  imagine  yourself 
perfection,  and  are  up  in  arras  in  a  moment.  Answer  me, 
seriously  :  do  you  ever  expect  to  settle  in  life  1" 
"  I  have  dared  to  cherish  the  forlorn  hope." 
"  Forlorn  as  it  is,  you  ^  "3  taking  the  best  method  to  destroy 
it." 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do  V 
"  Yield  to  cin-umstances." 

"  Become  a  villain  ?"  This  was  said  with  a  very  tragic  air. 
"  May  heaven  forbid  I  I  would  be  sorry  to  see  you  so 
nearly  resemble  your  uncle.  But  I  would  have  you  avoid  use- 
lessly offending  him  ;  for,  by  constantly  inflaming  his  mind  to 
anger,  you  may  ruin  your  own  prospects,  and  be  driven,  in  des- 
peration, to  adopt  measures  for  obtaining  a  living,  scarcely  less 
dishonorable  than  his  own." 

"  Go  on,"  I  cried  ;  "  it  is  all  very  well  for  yon  to  talk  in  this 
philosophical  strain  ;  you  have  not  been  educated  in  the  same 
bitter  school  with  me  ;  yon  have  not  known  wliat  it  is  to 
writhe  beneath  the  oppressive  authority  of  this  cold,  ui.feeling 
man  ;  you  cannot  understand  the  nature  of  my  sufferings,  or  the 
painful  humiliation  I  must  daily  endure." 
He  took  my  hand  affectionately. 

"  Geoffrey,  how  do  you  know  all  this  ?    Yours  is  not  a  pro 
fcscion  which  allows  men  to  jump  at  conclusions.     What  can 
you  tell  of  my  past  or  present  trials.     What  if  I  should  say, 
they  had  been  far  greater  and  worse  to  bear  than  your  own  ?" 
'•  Impossible !" 

"  All  things  that  have  reference  to  sorrow  and  trouble,  in 
this  world,  are  only  too  possible.  But  I  will  have  patience  with 
you,  my  poor  friend  ;  your  heart  is  very  sore.  The  deadly 
wounds  in  mine  are  partially  healed  ;  yet,  my  experience  of  life 
has  been  bought  with  bitter  tears.    The  loss  of  hope,  health 


an( 

au( 

my 
< 

list 
me. 

J 

suff 
top- 
to  I 
inte 
wlii( 
Is  t 

I 

<i 

the 

kno\ 

brea 

artic 

with 

what 

bett( 

an  ei 

(I ' 

brea( 

"] 
«n 

hindc 
<(  ■> 

does 
nprig 
chart 
If 


■^•VSu-l' 


THK      MONCTONS. 


M 


icher,'  and  Fiirely, 
lity.  I  hint  at  a 
i  imagine  yourself 
nt  Answer  me, 
?" 

netliod  to  destroy 


i  very  tragic  air, 
y  to  see  you  so 
ire  you  avoid  use- 
raing  his  mind  to 
be  driven,  in  des- 
iving,  scarcely  less 

you  to  talk  in  this 
;atcd  in  the  same 
wn  what  it  is  to 
his  cold,  ui.<'eeliDg 
f  sufferings,  or  the 


'ours  is  not  a  pro- 
isions.  What  can 
it  if  I  should  say, 
than  your  own  ?" 

>w  and  trouble,  in 
have  patience  with 
sore.  The  deadly 
'  experience  of  life 
53  of  hope,  health 


and  self-respect.  1  am  willinK  that  you  should  profit  by  this ; 
and,  having  made  this  confession,  will  you  condescend  to  hear 
my  lecture  to  an  end  ?" 

"  Oh,  tell  me  something  more  about  yourself.  I  would  rather 
listen  to  your  sorrows,  than  have  my  faults  paraded  before 
me." 

A  melancholy  smile  passed  over  his  face, 

"  Geoffrey,  what  a  child  you  are  1  Listen  to  me.  You  have 
suffered  this  personal  dislike  to  your  uncle  and  his  son,  to  over- 
top— like  some  rank  weed— every  better  growth  of  your  mind  ; 
to  destroy  your  moral  integrity  and  mental  advantages  ;  to 
interfere  with  your  studies,  and  prevent  any  beneficial  result 
which  might  arise  from  your  situation  as  clerk  in  this  office. 
Is  this  wise?" 

I  remained  obstinately  silent. 

"  Yon  are  lengthening  the  term  of  your  bondage,  and  riveting 
the  fetters  you  are  so  anxious  to  break.  Does  not  your  uncle 
know  this?  Does  he  not  laugh  at  your  impotent  efforts  to 
break  his  yoke  from  off  your  neck  ?  In  one  short  year  your 
articles  will  expire,  and  you  will  become  a  free  agent.  But> 
with  the  little  knowledge  yon  have  gained  of  your  profession, 
what  would  liberty  do  for  you  ?  Would  it  procure  for  you  a 
better  situation  ;  establish  your  claims  as  a  gentleman,  or  fill 
an  empty  purse  ?" 

"  Let  the  worst  come  to  the  worst— I  could  work  for  my 
bread." 

"  Not  such  an  easy  thing  as  you  imagine." 

"  With  health,  strength  and  youth  on  my  side,  what  should 
hinder  me  ?" 

"Your  uncle's  influence,  which  is  very  great.  The  world 
does  not  know  him,  as  we  know  him.  He  is  considered  an 
npright,  honorable  man.  One  word  from  him  would  blast  your 
character,  and  keep  you  out  of  every  office  in  London." 

I  felt  my  cheeks  grow  pale.     I  had  never  seen  matters  in  this 


a 


i 


M 


THK     HONOTONS 


light  before.  Still,  I  would  not  yield  to  the  arguments  of  my 
frieud.  The  obstinate  spirit  of  the  Monctous  was  in  active  ope- 
ration just  tiien,  and  would  not  submit  to  reason. 

"  There  are  more  ways  of  earning  a  living  than  by  following 
the  profession  of  the  law,"  said  I,  doggedly. 

"  To  all  of  which  you  have  an  apprenticeship  to  serve.  Think, 
Geoffrey,  of  tho  thousands  of  respectable  young  men  who  are 
looking  for  employraent  in  this  vast  metropolis,  and  how  few  are 
Buccessful  ;  and  then  ask  yourself,  how  you  without  money, 
without  friends,  and  with  a  powerful  ci^emy  to  ciush  all  your 
honest  endeavors,  and  render  them  aliortive,  are  likely  to  eara 
your  own  living." 

I  was  struck  speechless,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life, 
became  aware  of  my  utter  'nability  to  extricate  myself  out  of 
the  net  of  difficulties  that  surrounded  me. 

*'  You  are  convinced  at  last.  Look  me  steadily  in  the  face, 
Geoffrey,  and  own  that  you  are  beaten.  Nay,  smooth  that 
frowning  brow  ;  it  maker  you  look  like  Robert  Moncton. 

"  Your  profession  is  a  fortune  w  itself,  if  you  persevere  in 
acquiring  it.  Be  not  discouraged  by  difficulties  that  beset  the 
path.  A  poor  man's  road  to  independence  is  always  np-hill 
work  Duty  femes  the  path  on  either  side,  and  success  waves 
her  flag  from  the  summit ;  but  every  step  must  be  trod,  often  iu 
ragged  garments  and  .vith  bare  feet,  if  we  would  reach  the 
top." 

I  pressed  George  Harrison's  hand,  silently  within  my  own. 
He  had  won  a  great  victory  over  obstinacy  and  self-conceit. 

Prom  that  hour  my  prospects  brighteiud.  I  became  a  new 
creature,  full  cf  hc^'i,  activity  and  trust.  My  legal  studies 
engage",  all  iny  leisure  moments.  I  had  no  time  left  to  brood 
over  my  wrongs.  My  mind  had  formed  an  estimate  of  its  own 
powers  ;  the  energetic  spirit  which  had  been  wasted  in  endless 
cavils  and  contradictions — for  my  temper  was  faulty  and  head- 
strong,  and  n. /  unde  not  always  the  aggressor — now  asserted 


iMsm-- 


TBB     tfONCTONI. 


4t 


ftrgnment*  of  my 
foa  in  active  ope- 
on. 
than  by  following 

to  serve.  Think, 
ing  inou  wlio  are 
,  and  how  few  are 
witlioat  money, 
to  ciush  all  your 
are  likely  to  eara 

;  time  in  my  life, 
ate  myself  out  of 

*adily  in  the  face, 
Nay,  smooth  that 
t  Moncton. 
'  you  persevere  in 
ties  that  beset  the 
is  always  up-hill 
and  succ'dss  waves 
st  be  trod,  often  iu 
J  would  reach  the 

ly  within  my  own, 
nd  self-conceit. 
1  became  a  new 
My  legal  studies 
I  time  left  to  brood 
estimate  of  its  own 
1  wasted  in  endless 
IS  faulty  and  head- 
ssor — aow  asserted 


its  own  dig!)ity,  and  furnished  me  with  the  weapon  most  needed 
in  such  petty  warfare— self-respect.  Harrition  had  given  me  a 
motive  for  exertion,  and  I  was  ashamed  of  having  3uffured  my 
mental  powers  lo  remain  so  long  inactive.  As  ray  mind 
recovered  a  healthy  tone,  rjy  spirits  rose  in  proportion.  The 
tl.irst  for  improv(!ment  daily  acquired  new  strength,  while  my 
industry  not  only  surprised,  but  drew  forth  the  commendations 
of  my  uncle. 

"  What  has  become  of  your  churlish,  morose  temper,  Geof- 
frey?" he  said  to  me  one  day  at  dinner  ;  "why,  boy,  yon  are 
greatly  changed  of  late.  Prori  a  sulky,  impertinent,  vindictive 
lad,  you  have  became  an  industrious,  agreeable,  pleasant 
fellow." 

"It  is  never  too  late  to  mend,  uncle,"  said  I,  laughing, 
though  I  did  not  much  relish  his  portrait  of  what  I  had  been. 
"  My  temper  I  found  a  greater  punishment  to  myself  than  to 
others,  so  I  thought  it  high  time  to  change  it  for  a  better." 

"  You  were  perfectly  right.  I  have  a  better  hope  for  your 
future  thau  I  once  had.  I  shall  be  able  to  make  something  out 
of  you  yet." 

This  unlooked-for  condescension  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Moncton, 
softened  the  hard  feelings  I  had  long  cherished  against  him 
into  a  more  Ohristian-like  endurance  of  his  peculiarities  ;  and 
the  conscientious  discharge  o."  my  own  duty  taught  me  to 
consider  his  interests  as  uiy  own. 


4$ 


TB  K     MONOTONi 


Cn  AFTER    VI  I  I. 


DNORATiriBD   OURIOSITV. 


ts: 


•0. 


i';% 


r 


Therb  is  a  period  in  every  young  man's  first  outset  in  life, 
that  gives  a  coloring  to  his  future  destiny.  Ii  is  the  time  for 
action,  for  mental  and  moral  improvement,  and  the  manner  in 
which  it  is  applied  or  neglected,  will  decide  his  character,  or 
leave  him  weak  and  vacillating  all  the  days  of  his  life. 

If  this  precious  portion  of  existetice  is  wasted  in  frivolous 
amasementa,  time  gets  the  start  of  as,  and  no  after-exertion 
enables  us  to  overtake  him  in  his  flight.  This  important  era 
was  mine— and  1  lost  no  opportunity  of  turning  it  to  the  best 
advantage.  I  worked  early  and  late  in  the  oQice,  and  made 
myself  master  of  the  nature  of  the  work  that  employed  my 
hands.  I  learned  the  philosophy  of  those  law  forms,  which 
hitherto  I  had  only  copied  mechanically,  and  looked  upon  as  a 
weary  task,  and  I  soon  reoped  the  benefit  of  my  increased  stock 
of  knowledge.  Grave  men,  in  the  absence  of  my  uncle,  often 
applied  to  me  for  information  and  advice,  which  I  felt  proud  and 
happy  in  being  able  to  supply, 

Tims,  I  found  that  in  serving  my  employer  faithfully,  I  con- 
ferred the  greatest  benefit  on  myself ;  and  the  hours  devoted  to 
study,  while  they  formed  a  pleasant  recreation  from  the  day 
labors  of  the  office,  were  among  the  happiest  and  most  sinless  of 
my  life. 

I  was  seldom  admitted  into  my  uncle's  drawing-room,  and 
never  allowed  to  mingle  with  evening  parties,  which,  during  the 
brief  visits  of  Theophilus  to  his  home,  were  not  only  frequent, 
bat  very  brilliant.     This  I  felt  as  a  great  hardship.     My  soli- 


idi^j 


TBR     MOKCTONa. 


If 


fu-8t  outset  in  Ufa, 
It  is  the  time  for 

auU  the  manner  in 
e  his  cliaracter,  or 
af  his  life. 

vastod  in  frirolous 
i  no  after-exertion 
This  important  era 
ning  it  to  the  best 
he  oflice,  and  made 

that  employed  my 
e  law  forms,  which 
id  looked  upon  as  a 
'  my  inei^ased  stock 
9  of  my  uncle,  often 
lich  I  felt  proud  and 

jrer  faithfully,  I  con- 
he  hours  devoted  to 
ation  from  the  day 
t  and  most  sinless  of 

drawing-room,  and 
js,  which,  during  the 
e  not  only  frequent, 

hardship.     My  soli- 


tary and  companionless  youth  had  deeply  imi)Uod  my  inlml  with 
lomiUKio.  I  was  fond  of  castlii-building  ;  I  pictured  to  myself 
the  world  as  a  paradise,  and  fancied  that  I  wus  an  iilustrioua 
uctor  in  scenes  of  imaginary  splendor,  which  bore  no  analogy  to 
tht"  (lull  realities  of  my  present  life. 

1  was  a  dreamer  of  wild  dreams,  and  suffered  my  enthusiasm 
to  get  the  master  of  reason,  and  betray  me  into  a  thousand 
iibsiirditieti.  My  love  for  poetry  and  music  was  excessive.  I 
played  upon  the  flute  by  ear,  and  often  when  alone,  dissipated 
my  melancholy  thoughts  by  breathing  them  into  the  instru- 
ment. 

Through  this  medium,  Harrison  became  an  adept  at  discover- 
ing the  state  of  my  feelings.  "  My  flute  told  tales,"  he  said. 
"  It  always  spoke  the  language  of  my  heart."  Yet  from  him  I 
had  few  concealments.  He  was  my  friend  and  bosom  counsellor, 
in  whom  I  n-posed  the  most  unreserved  confidence.  But  strange 
to  say,  this  confldence  was  not  mutual.  There  was  a  mystery 
about  George  that  I  could  not  fathom  ;  a  mental  i-eservation 
that  was  tantalizing  and  inexplicable. 

He  was  a  gentleman  in  education,  appearance  and  manners, 
and  possessed  those  high  and  honorable  feelings,  which  if  dis- 
played in  a  peasant,  would  rank  him  as  one,  and  which  are 
inseparable  from  all  who  really  deserve  the  title.  He  never 
sjioke  to  me  of  his  family— never  alluded  to  the  events  of  hia 
l)ii8t  life,  or  the  scenes  in  which  his  childhood  had  been  spent. 
Ho  talked  of  sorrow  and  sickness— of  chastisements  in  the 
scliodi  of  adversity,  in  general  terms ;  but  he  never  revealed  the 
cause  of  these  trials,  or  why  a  young  man  of  his  attainments  wag 
reduced  to  a  situation  so  far  below  the  station  he  ought  to  have 
held  in  society. 

I  was  half  inclined  to  quarrel  with  him  for  so  pertinacionely 
concealing  from  roe  circumstances  which  I  thought  I  had  a  right 
to  know  ;  and  in  which,  when  known,  I  was  fully  prepared  to 
sympathize.    A  thousand  times  I  was  on  the  point  of  remon- 

8 


J 


THR    MO  NOTON  I. 


l.'^- 


■trating  with  him  on  this  undue  roscrve,  which  appeared  M 
foreign  to  his  frauli,  open  nature,  but  feelings  of  delicacy 
restrainc'l  me. 

What  right  had  I  to  pry  into  his  secrets  ?  My  impertinent 
cariosity  might  reopen  wounds  that  time  had  closed.  There 
were,  doubtless,  good  reasons  for  his  withholding  the  information 
I  coveted. 

Yet,  I  must  confess  that  I  had  an  intense  curiosity— a  burn- 
ing desire  to  know  the  history  of  his  past  life.  For  many  long 
months  my  wishes  remained  ungratiQed. 

At  this  time  I  felt  an  ardent  desire  to  see  something  more  of 
life,  to  mingle  in  the  gay  scenes  of  the  great  world  around  me. 
Pride,  however,  withheld  me  from  accepting  the  many  pressing 
invitations  I  daily  received  from  the  clerks  in  the  oflBce,to  join  them 
in  parties  of  pleasure,  to  the  theatres  and  other  places  of  public 
amusement.      Mr.  Moncton  had  strictly  forbidden  me  to  leave 
the  house  of  an  evening  ;  but  as  he  was  often  absent  of  a  night, 
I  could  easily  have  evaded  his  commands  ;  but  I  scorned  to 
expose  to  strangers  the  meanness  of  my  wealthy  relative,  by 
confessing  that  mine  was  an  empty  purse;  while  the  thought  of 
eiyoying  myself  at  the  expense  of  my  generous  companions,  wag 
not  to  be  tolerated  for  an  instant.    If  I  could  not  go  as  a  gen- 
tleman, and  pay  my  own  share  of  the  entertainment,  I  deter- 
mined not  to  go  at  all  ;   and  these  resolutions  met  with  the 
entire  approbation  of  my  friend  Harrison. 

"  Wait  patiently,  Geoffrey,  and  fortune  will  pay  up  the  arrears 
of  the  long  debt  she  owes  you.  It  is  an  old  and  hackneyed 
saying,  'That  riches  alone,  cannot  confer  happiness  upon  the 

possessor.' " 

"  My  uncle  and  cousin  are  living  demonstrations  of  the  truth 
of  the  proverb.  Mr.  Moncton  is  affluent,  and  might  enjoy  all 
the  luxuries  that  wealth  can  procure  ;  yet  he  toils  with  as  much 
assiduity  to  increase  his  riches,  as  the  poorest  laborer  does  to 
earn  bread  for  his  family.    He  can  acquire,  but  has  not  the 


he 
rci 
aft 

Re 

tlu 
gk 

jud 

HO 

see 

] 

eas 

fab 

gO{ 
I  V 
wai 

"I 

1 
stai 
unn 

I 

huD 

Gee 

eral 

and 

cure 

by  I 

wea 

app 

ehoi 
II 

that 


-■■-?u.?ar,ja-, 


VBB    U0N0T0N8. 


51 


ich  appeared  M 
ings   of  delicacy 

My  impertinent 
d  closed.  Tiicre 
i;  tlio  information 

urlosity — a  biirn- 
For  many  long 

•mcthing  more  of 
rorld  around  me. 
ho  many  pressing 
office,  to  join  them 
ur  places  of  publir 
Iden  me  to  leave 
absent  of  a  night, 
bat  I  scorned  to 
altby  relative,  by 
ile  the  thought  of 
i  companions,  was 
d  not  go  as  a  gen- 
tainment,  I  deter- 
ons  met  with  the 

pay  up  the  arrears 
Id  and  hackneyed 
appiness  upon  the 

.tions  of  the  truth 
nd  might  enjoy  all 
toils  with  as  much 
it  laborer  does  to 
,  bat  has  not  the 


heart  to  enjoy— while  the  bad  disposition  of  Theopliilus  would 
rcndiir  him,  under  any  circniustances,  a  miserablo  man.  Yet, 
after  ail,  George,  in  this  bad  world,  money  is  power." 

"  Only,  to  a  certain  extent— to  be  happy,  a  man  nmst  be  good. 
Ileligionsly— morally— physically.  He  must  bear  upon  his  heart 
the  image  of  the  Prince  of  Peace,  before  he  can  truly  value  the 
glorious  boon  of  life." 

'•  I  wish  I  could  see  these  things  in  the  same  calm  unpre- 
judiced light,"  said  I ;  "  but  I  find  it  a  bitter  mortification,  after 
so  many  years  of  hard  labor,  to  be  without  a  penny  to  pay  for 
seeing  a  raree-show." 

Harrison  laughed  heartily.  "  You  will  perhaps  say,  that  it  ia 
easy  for  me  to  preach  against  riches  ;  but  like  the  Fox  in  the 
fable,  the  grapes  are  sour.  But  I  speak  with  indifference  of  the 
good  that  Providence  has  placed  beyond  my  reach.  Geoffrey, 
I  was  ouce  the  envied  possessor  of  wealth,  which  iu  my  case 
was  productive  of  much  evil." 

"  How  did  you  lose  such  an  advantage  ?"  I  eagerly  cried. 
"  Do  tell  me  something  of  your  past  life  ?" 

This  was  the  first  allusion  he  had  made  to  his  former  circum- 
stances ;  and  I  was  determined  uot  to  let  the  opportunity  pasa 
unnoticed. 

He  seemed  to  guess  my  thoughts.  "  Are  you  anxious  for  a 
humiliating  confession,  of  vanity,  folly  and  prodigality  ;  well 
Geoffrey,  you  shall  have  it— but  mark  me— it  will  only  he  in  gen- 
eral terms— I  cannot  enter  into  particulars.  I  was  born  poor, 
and  unexpectedly  became  rich,  and  like  many  persons  in  like  cir- 
cumstances, I  was  ashamed  of  my  mean  erigin  ;  and  thought, 
by  malyng  a  dashing  appearance  and  squandering  lavishly  my 
wealth,  to  induce  men  to  forget  my  humble  birth.  The  world 
applauds  such  madness  as  long  as  the  money  lasts,  and  for  a 
abort  period,  I  had  friends  and  flatterers  at  will. 

"  My  brief  career  terminated  in  ruin  "and  disgrace— wealth 
that  is  uot  acquired  by  industry,  is  seldom  retaujed  by  prudence  j 


:J 


68 


THE     KONCTONS. 


and  to  those  unacquainted  with  the  real  value  of  money,  a  large 
sum  always  appears  inexliaustible.  So  it  was  with  me.  I  spent, 
without  calculating  the  cost,  and  soon  lost  all.  The  world  now 
wore  a  very  dift'erent  aspect.  1  was  deserted  by  all  my  gay 
associates,  my  most  intimate  companions  passed  me  in  the  streets 
without  recognition.  I  knew  that  this  would  be  the  result  of 
my  altered  fortunes,  yet  the  reality  cut  me  to  the  heart. 

"  These  are  mortifying  lessons,  which  experience — wisdom's 
best  counsellor — daily  teaches  us  ;  and  a  man  must  either  be  very 
Belf-conceited,  or  very  insensible,  who  cannot  profit  by  her  valu- 
able instructions.  The  hour  tliat  brought  to  me  the  humiliating 
conviction,  that  I  was  a  person  of  no  consequence  ;  that  the 
world  could  go  on  very  well  without  me  ;  that  ray  merry  com- 
panions would  not  be  one  jot  less  facetious,  though  I  was  absent 
from  their  jovial  parties,  was,  after  all,  not  the  most  miserable 
of  my  life. 

"  I  woke  as  from  a  dream.  The  scales  had  fallen  from  my 
eyes,  1  knew  myself — and  became  a  wiser  and  better  man — I 
called  all  my  creditors  together,  discharged  my  debts,  and  found 
myself  free  of  the  world  in  the  most  literal  sense. 

"  Good  Heavens  1"  I  exclaimed.  "  How  could  you  bear  such 
a  dreadful  reverse  with  such  fortitude — such  magnanimity  ?" 

"  You  give  me  greater  credit  than  I  deserve,  Geoffrey — my 
imprudent  conduct  merited  a  severe  punishment,  and  I  had  sense 
enough  to  discern  that  it  was  just.  After  the  first  shock  was 
over,  I  felt  happier  in  my  poverty  than  I  had  ever  done  during 
my  unmerited  prosperity — I  had  abused  the  gifts  of  fortune 
while  they  were  mine,  and  I  determined  to  acquire  an  independ- 
ence by  my  own  exertions.  A  friend,  whom  1  had  scarcely 
regarded  as  such,  during  my  reckless  career  of  foil),  came  unex- 
pectedly to  my  assistance,  and  offered  to  purchase  for  me  a  com- 
mission in  the  army,  bui  I  had  private  reasons  for  wishing  to 
obtain  a  situation  in  this  office  ;  writing  a  good  hand,  and  hav< 
Ing  been  originally  educated  for  the  profession,  together  with 


'^V. 


THE     M0NCT0N8. 


53 


of  money,  a  large 
fvith  ine.  I  spent, 
The  world  now 
;d  by  all  my  gay 
i  me  iu  the  streets 
d  be  the  result  of 
the  heart, 
•erieuce — wisdom's 
lust  either  be  very 
profit  by  her  valu- 
uc  the  humiliating 
iqueuce  ;  that  the 
at  ray  merry  com- 
ough  I  was  absent 
/he  most  miserable 

d  fallen  from  my 
id  better  man — I 
jr  debts,  and  found 
use. 

>uld  you  bear  such 
aagnaniraity  ?" 
rve,  Geoffrey — my 
it,  and  I  had  sense 
le  first  shock  was 
ever  done  during 
3  gifts  of  fortune 
quire  an  independ- 
m  1  had  spureely 
f  foil  J,  came  unex- 
hasc  for  me  a  coni- 
ons  for  wishing  to 
od  hand,  and  hav« 
ion,  together  with 


the  recommendation  of  Mr.  Bassett  who  was  related  to  my 
frifiid.  j)rocured  lue  the  place  I  now  hold."' 

"And  your  reasons  for  coming  here  ?"  [  cried,  buru.ng  with 
curiosity. 

"  Pardon  me,  Geoffrey.    That  is  ray  secret." 

He  spoke  with  the  calmness  of  a  philosopher,  but  I  saw  the 
tears  in  his  eyes  as  he  turned  mechanically  to  the  parchment  be 
was  copying,  and  affected  an  air  of  cheerful  resignation. 

The  candid  exposure  of  his  past  faults  and  follies  raised,  rather 
than  sunk  him  in  my  estimation  ;  but  I  was  sadly  disappointed 
at  the  general  terms  in  which  they  were  revealed.  I  wanted  to 
know  every  eveat^x)f  his  private  life,  and  this  abridgment  was  very 
tantalizing. 

While  1  was  pondering  these  things  in  my  heart,  the  pen  he 
had  grasped  so  tightly  was  flung  to  some  distance,  and  he  raised 
his  fine  eyes  to  my  face. 

"Thank  God,  Geoffrey  1— I  have  not,  as  yet,  lost  the  faculty 
of  feeling— that  1  can  see  and  deplore  the  errors  of  the  past 
When  I  think  of  what  I  was— what  I  am  -and  what  I  might 
have  been,  it  brings  a  cloud  over  my  mind  which  often  dissolves 
in  tears.  This  is  the  weakness  of  human  nature.  But  the  years 
PC  useK'ssly  wasted  rise  up  in  dread  array  against  me,  and  the 
ilood-gates  of  the  soul  are  broken  up  by  bitter  and  remorseful 
regrets.  But  see,"  he  cried,  dashing  the  thickening  mist  from 
his  eyes,  and  resuming  his  peculiarly  benevolent  smile.  "  The 
dark  cloud  has  passed,  and  George  is  himself  again." 

"  You  are  happier  than  1.     You  can  smile  through  your 
tears,"  [  cried,  regarding  his  April  face  with  surprise. 

"  And  so  yrould  you,  Geoffrey,  if,  like  me,  you  had  brought 
your  passions  under  the  subjection  of  reason." 

"  It  is  no  easy  task,  George,  to  storm  a  city,  when  your  own 
subjects  defend  the  walls,  and  at  every  a(  tack  drive  you  back 
with  your  own  weapons,  into  the  trenches.  I  will,  however, 
commence  the  attack,  by  striving  to  forget  that  there'is  a  world 


V 


H    .    :'■ 


I  -;• 


54 


THE     UONCTONS. 


beyond  these  gloomy  walls,  in  whose  busy  scenes  1  am  forbidden 
to  mingle." 

"  Valliantly  resolved,  Geoffrey.    But  how  comes  it,  that  you 
did  not  tell  me  the  news  this  morning  ?" 
"  News — what  news  ?" 

"  Your  co-isin  Theophilus  returned  last  night." 
"  The  devil  he  did.    That's  everything  but  gooa  news  to  me. 
But  are  you  sure  the  news  is  true  ?" 

"  My  landlady  is  sister  to  Mr.  Moncton's  housekeeper.  I  had 
iny  information  from  her.  g^he  tells  me  that  the  father  and  sou 
are  on  very  bad  terms." 

"  I  have  seldom  heard  Mr.  Moncton  mention  him  of  late.     I 
wonder  we  have  not  S3en  him  in  the  office.     He  generally  pays 
us  an  early  visit  to  show  off  his  fine  clothes,  and  to  insult  me." 
"  Talk  of  hi^  satanic  majesty,  Geoff.     You  know  the  rest. 
Uere  comes  the  heir  of  the  house  of  Moncton." 

"  He  does  not  belong  to  the  elder  branch,"  I  cried,  fiercely. 
"  Poor  as  I  am,  I  consider  myself  the  head  of  the  house,  and 
one  of  these  days  will  dispute  his  right  to  that  title." 

"Tush!"  said  George,  resuming  his  pen,  "you  are  talking 
sad  nonsense.     But  thereby  hangs  a  lale." 

I  looked  up  inquiringly.  Harrison  was  hard  at  work.  I  saw 
a  mischievous  smile  hovering  about  hib  lips.  He  turned  hia 
back  abruptly  to  the  door,  and  bent  more  closely  over  his  parch- 
ment, as  Theophilus  Moncton  entered  the  office  equipped  for 
a  journey. 


1 

and 

and 

lion 

liim 

I 

of  t 

inte 

scar 

B 

exce 

whic 

been 

plac( 

pron 

rowi 

voca 

sion 

ghasi 

in  c< 

whici 

But  I 

manl; 

wishe 


nes  1  am  forbidden 
comes  it,  that  yoa 


ht." 
good  news  to  me. 

ousekeeper.    I  had 
,  the  father  aud  sou 

ion  him  of  late,     I 
He  generally  pays 
and  to  insult  me." 
ou  know  the  rest, 
n." 

1,"  I  cried,  fiercely. 
i  of  the  house,  aud 
at  title." 
I,  "  you  are  talking 

ird  at  work.    I  saw 

ps.     He  turned  his 

)sely  over  his  parch- 

oflfice  equipped  for 


CH  AFTER    IX. 

A    PORTRAIT. 

Two  years  had  passed  away  since  I  last  beheld  my  consin 
and  during  his  absence,  there  had  been  peace  between  his  father 
and  me.  He  appeared  before  me  like  the  evil  genius  of  the 
house,  prepared  to  renew  the  old  hostility,  and  I  could  not  meet 
Inin  with  the  least  show  of  cordiality  and  affection. 

I  am  not  a  good  hand  at  sketching  portraits,  but  the  person 
of  my  cousin  is  so  fresh  in  my  memory,  his  image  so  closely 
niterwoven  with  all  the  leading  events  of  my  life,  that  I  can 
scarcely  fail  in  giving  a  tolerably  correct  likeness  of  the  original 
He  was  just  about  the  middle  stature,  his  figure  slender  and 
exceedingly  well  made  ;  and  but  for  a  strong  dash  of  affectation 
which  marred  all  that  he  did  and  said,  his  carriage  would  have 
been  easy  and  graceful.     His  head  was  small  and  handsomely 
placed  upon  his  shoulders,  his  features  sharply  defined  and  very 
prominent.   His  teeth  were  dazzlingly  white,  but  so  long  and  nar- 
row  that  tiiey  looked  as  if  they  could  bite  you  under  the  least  pro- 
vocation,  which  gave  a  peculiarly  sinister  and  malicious  cxpres 
sion  to  his  face— which  expression  was  greatly  heightened  by  th 
ghastly  contortiftn  that  was  meant  for  a  smile,  and  which  was 
in  constant  requisition,  in  order  to  show  off  the  said  teeth 
which  Theophiius  considered  one  of  his  greatest  attractions' 
But  my  cousin  had  no.personal  attractions.     There  was  nothing 
manly  or  decided  about  him.     Smooth  and  insidious  where  he 
wished  to  please,  his  first  appearance  to  strangers  was  always 


56 


THE     MONCTONS. 


unprepossessing  ;  and  few  persons  on  their  first  introduction, 
had  any  great  desire  to  extend  their  acquaintance. 

He  ought  to  have  been  fair,  for  his  hair  and  whiskers  were  of 
the  palest  tint  of  brown ;  but  his  complexion  was  grey  and 
luuddy,  and  his  large  sea-green  eyes  affonled  not  the  least  con- 
trast to  the  uniform  smokiness  of  his  skin.  Those  cold,  selfish, 
deceitful  eyes.  His  father's  iu  shape  and  expression,  but  lacking 
the  dark  strength — the  stern  determined  look  that  at  times 
lighted  up  Robert  Moncton's  proud,  cruel  face. 

Much  as  I  disliked  the  father,  he  was,  in  his  worst  moods, 
more  tolerable  to  mo  bban  his  sou.  Glimpses  of  his  mind  would 
at  times  flash  out  through  those  unnaturally  bright  eyes  ;  and 
betray  somewhat  of  the  hell  within.  But  Theophilus  was  close 
and  dark — a  sealed  book  which  no  man  could  open  and  read. 
An  overweening  sense  of  his  own  importance  was  the  only  trait 
of  his  character  which  lay  upon  the  surface  ;  and  this,  his 
muster  failing,  was  revealed  by  every  look  and  gesture. 

A  servile  flatterer  to  persons  of  rank,  and  insolent  and 
tyrannical  to  those  whom  he  considered  beneath  him,  he  united  in 
his  character,  the  qualiiications  of  both  tyrant  and  slave. 

The  most  brilliant  sallies  of  wit  could  not  produce  the  least 
brightening  effect  upon  his  saturnine  countenance,  or  the  most 
pathetic  burst  of  eloquence  draw  the  least  moisture  to  his  eye, 
which  only  became  animated  when  contradicting  some  well- 
received  opinion,  or  discussing  the  merits  of  an  acqnaintance, 
and  placing  his  faults  and  follies  in  the  most  conspicuous  light. 

He  was  endowed  with  excellent  practical  abilities,  possessed 
a  most  retentive  memory,  and  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the 
most  intri(>.ate  windings  of  the  human  heart.  Nothing  escaped 
his  observation.  It  would  have  been  a  difficult  matter  to  have 
made  a  tool  of  one,  whose  suspicions  were  always  wide  awake  ; 
who  never  acted  from  impulse,  or  without  a  motive,  and  who 
had  a  shrewd  knack  of  rendering  the  passions  of  others  subscr- 
Tieut  to  his  own. 


"Din 


THE     HO  NCTO  XS 


61 


rst  introduction, 

ice. 

wliiskers  were  o( 
u  W03  grey  aud 
not  the  least  cou- 
'hose  cold,  selfish, 
ission,  but  lacking 
ok  that  at  times 

his  worst  moods, 
of  his  miud  would 

bright  eyes ;  and 
leophilus  was  close 
lid  oi>eu  aud  read. 
J  was  the  only  trait 
ace 


aud  this,  his 


d  gesture. 

and   insolent  and 
ith  him,  he  united  ia 
it  and  slave. 
,t  produce  the  least 
jnance,  or  the  most 
moisture  to  his  eye, 
ftdicting  some  well- 
of  an  acquaintance, 
conspicuous  light, 
abilities,  possessed 
knowledge  of  the 
Nothing  escaped 
icuU  matter  to  have 
always  wide  awake  ; 
t  a  motive,  aud  who 
ons  of  others  subset- 


He  was  devoted  to  sensual  pleasures,  but  the  mask  he  wore 
so  effectually  concealed  his  vif'ous  propensities,  tl'at  the  most 
caulious  parents  would  hare  admitted  him,  without  hesitation, 
into  their  family  circle. 

Robert  Moncton  thought  himself  master  of  tlie  mind  of  his 
son,  and  fancied  him  a  mere  puppet  iu  his  hands ;  but  his 
cunning  was  foiled  by  the  superior  cunning  of  Tlieophilu.s,  and 
he  ultimately  became  tlu'  dupe  and  victim  of  the  being  for 
whose  aggrandizemcu'  he  did  not  scruple  to  commit  the  worsii 
crimes. 

Theophilus  was  extremely  neat  in  his  dress,  and  from  tho 
cravat  to  the  well-polished  boot  his  costume  was  perfect.  An 
effeminate,  solemn-looking  dandy  outwardly — within,  as  fero- 
cious and  bard  a  human  biped  as  ever  disgraced  the  name  of 
man. 

"Well,  Geoff  I"  he  said,  condescendingly  presenting  his  hand, 
"  what  have  you  been  doing  for  the  last  two  years  ?" 

"  Writing,  in  the  old  place,"  said  I,  carelessly. 

" A  fixture  ! — ha,  ha  1  'A  rolling  stone,'  they  say,  ' gathers 
no  moss.'    How  does  that  agree  with  your  stationary  position  ?" 

"It  only  proves,  that  all  proverbs  have  two  sides  to  them," 
said  I.  "  You  roll  about  the  world  and  scatter  the  moss  that 
I  sit  here  to  help  accumulate." 

"  What  a  lucky  dog  you  are,"  he  said,  "  to  escape  so  easily 
from  the  snares  and  temptations  of  this  wicked  world.  While  I 
am  tormented  with  ennui,  blue-devils  and  dyspepsia,  you  sit  still 
and  grow  in  stature  and  knowledge.  By  Jove  I  you  are  too 
big  to  wear  my  cast-off  suits  now.  My  valet  will  bless  tho 
increase  of  your  outv^ard  man,  and  I  don't  think  you  have  at  all 
profited  by  the  circumstance.  Where  the  deuce  did  you  get 
that  eccentric  turn-out  ?  It  certainly  does  not.  remind  one  of 
Bond  street." 

"  Mr.  Theophilus  1"  I  cried,  reddening  with  indignation, 
"  Did  you  come  here  on  purpose  tc  insult  me  ?" 

3* 


It? 


il<     IK 


THE     M  0  N  C  T  0  N'  R  . 

"  Sit  Still,  now,  like  a  good  lad,  and  don't  fly  into  heroics  and 
give  us  a  scene.  I  am  too  liizy  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  you. 
What  a  confounded  wet  morning.  It  has  disarranged  all  my 
plans.  I  ordered  the  groom  to  bring  up  my  mare  at  eleven. 
The  rain  commenced  at  ten.  I  think  it  means  to  keep  on  at 
this  rate,  all  day." 

He  cast  a  peevish  glance  at  the  dusty  ground-glass  windows. 
"  Ther-i's  no  catching  a  glimpse  of  heaven  through  these  dim 
panes.    My  father's  clerks  are  not  called  upon  to  resist  the 
temptation  of  looking  into  the  streets." 

"  They  might  not  inappropriately  be  called  the  pains  and 
penalties  of  lawyer's  clerks,"  said  I,  smothering  my  anger,  as  1 
saw  by  the  motion  of  Harrison's  head,  that  he  was  suffering 
from  an  agony  of  suppressed  laughter. 

"  Not  a  bad  idea  that.  The  plan  of  grinding  the  glass  was 
suggested  by  me.  An  ingenious  one,  is  it  not  ?  My  fatlicr 
had  the  good  sense  to  adopt  it.  It's  a  pity  that  his  example 
is  not  followed  by  all  the  lawyers  and  merchants  in  London." 

In  spite  of  the  spattering  of  Harrison's  pen,  that  told  me 
as  plainly  as  words  could  have  done,  that  he  was  highly  amused 
at  the  scene,  I  felt  irritated  at  Theophilas  joking  about  a  cir- 
cumstance which,  to  me,  was  a  great  privation  and  annoyance. 

"  If  ym  had  a  seat  in  this  office,  Mr.  Theophilus,"  said  I, 
laying  a  strong  stress  upon  the  personal  pronoun,  "  you  would, 
I  am  certain,  take  good  care  to  keep  a  peep-hole,  well-glazed, 
for  your  own  convenience." 

"  If  I  were  in  the  office,"  he  replied,  with  one  of  his  sidelong, 
satirical  glances,  "  I  should  have  too  much  to  do  in  keeping  the 
clerks  at  work  and  in  their  places,  to  have  much  time  for  look- 
ing out  of  the  window.  My  father  would  do  well  to  hire  an 
overseer  for  idle  hands." 

Harrison's  tremulous  fit  increased,  while  I  was  burning  with 
Indignation,  and  rose  passionately  from  my  seat. 

"Geoflfrey"  —  pronounced  in  an  undertone,  restrained  me 


^i&.i 


THE      M  0  N  0  T  O  N  8  . 


66 


fly  into  heroics  aiij 
I  quarrel  with  you. 
disarranged  all  tny 
my  mare  at  eleven, 
eana  to  keep  on  at 

lund-glass  windows. 
I  through  these  dim 
upon  to  resist  the 

lied  the  pains  and 
Bring  my  anger,  as  1 
iiat  lie  was  sufifering 

inding  the  glass  was 
it  not  ?  My  fatlicr 
ty  that  his  example 
lants  in  London." 
i  pen,  that  told  me 
e  was  highly  amused 

joking  about  a  cir- 
ion  and  annoyance. 

Theophilus,"  said  I, 
ronoun,  "  you  would, 
eep-hole,  well-glazed, 

1  one  of  his  sidelong, 

to  do  in  keeping  the 

e  much  time  for  look- 

l  do  well  to  hire  an 

B  I  was  burning  with 

seat. 

rtone,  restrained  me 


I  resumed  my  stool,  mut- 


from  committing  an  act  of  violence, 
icring  audil)iy  between  my  teeth— 

"C'onieniptilile  i)ui)jiy  !" 

I  was  quite  ready  for  a  qimrrel,  but  Theophilus.  contrary  to 
my  expectations,  did  not  choose  to  take  any  notice  of  my  impru- 
ciw.t  speech.  Not  that  he  wanted  personal  courage.  Like  the 
VVU.SP  he  could,  when  unprovoked,  attack  others,  and  sting  with 
t.ntold  malice  when  he  felt  or. fancied  aa  affront.  His  forbear- 
"'i|;e  on  the  present  occasion,  I  attributed  to  the  very  handsome 
n.ln.g-dres8  in  which  he  had  encased  his  slight  and  elegant  form 
A  contest  with  a  strong,  powerful  young  fellow  like  me.  might 
luivo  ended  in  its  demolition. 

Slashing  his  boot  with  his  riding-whip,  and  glancing  carelessly 
towards  the  wmdow,  he  said,  with  an  air  of  perfect  indifference  : 
Well,  If  the  rain  means  to  po.r  in  this  way  all  day  it  is 
certain  that  I  cannot  prosecute  my  journey  to  Dover  on  horse- 
'>ack.  I  must  take  the  coach,  and  leave  the  groom  to  follow 
with  the  horses." 

''Dover!"!  repeated,  with  an  involuntary  start,  "are  you 
off  for  Prance  ?"  ■>  >  j  » 

"Yes  "  (with  a  weary  yawn) ;  "  I  shall  not  return  until  I  bavo 
made  the  tour  of  Europe,  and  I  just  stepped  in  for  a  moment  to 
say  good  bye." 

"  Unusually  kind,"  said  I.  with  a  sneer. 

He  remained  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  and  seemed  slightly 
embarrassed,  as  if  he  found  difficulty  in  bringing  out  what  he 
iiail  to  say. 

"Geoffrey.  I  may  be  absent  several  years.  It  is  just  possible 
that  we  may  never  meet  again." 

"I  hope  so,"  was  the  response  in  my  heart,  while  he  con- 
tinued — 

"  Your  time  in  this  office  expires  when  you  reach  your  major- 
ity. Our  paths  in  life  are  very  different,  and  from  that  period 
1  must  msist  upon  our  remaining  perfect  strangers  to  each  other." 


-ji 


T  U  E      MONOTONE. 

liefore  1  had  time  to  answei  his  un-raci  ,h  speech,  i.e  turned 
U1.01.  his  l.cel  and  'eft  i'.^^  oUi-  o,  auu  uio  literully  foaming  w  'b 

It  vsiou. 

••  Tl.nnk  God  he  is  gone  1"  cried  Uarrison.  "  V-  de.r  Geoff. 
accei)t  my  sincere  cong-atulations.  It  would  indeed  be  .  blc=ia- 
ing  did  you  never  meet  again." 

"  Oh,  tluvt  lie  had  stayed  another  minute,  that  I  migh  have 
demolished  the  foul  biped  of  his  guy  plumes." 

"  Don't  be  vindictive." 

"  I'm  so  angry-30  mortified,  George,  I  can  scarcelj  control 

myself."  „ 

"  Nonsense      His  departure  is  a  fortunate  event  for  you. 
"  Of  course— the  absence  of  one  so  actively  annoying,  must 
make  my  bondage  more  tolerable." 

"Listen  to  me,  petulant  boy!  There  is  war  in  the  camp. 
Theophilus  leaves  the  house  under  the  ban  of  bis  fati.er's  anger. 
They  have  had  a  desperate  quarrel,  and  he  quits  London  m  dis- 
grace ;  and  if  you  are  not  a  gainer  by  this  change  in  the  domes- 
tic arrangements,  my  name  is  not  Gjorge  Harrison." 
"  Why  do  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Because  I  know  more  of  Robert  Moncton  than  yon  do.     lo 
provoke  his  son  to  jealousy,  he  will  take  you  into  favor.     If 
Theophilus  has  gone  too  far-he  is  so  revengeful,  so  unforgiv- 
ing_he  may,  probably,  make  you  his  heir." 
"  May  God  forbid  1"  cried  I,  vehemently. 

Harrison  laughed.  ,    ^i.        i 

"Gold  is  too  bright  to  betray  the  dirty  channe.s  throngh 
which-  it  flows— and  I  feel  certain,  Geoffrey  " 

A  quick  rap  at  the  office  door  terminated  all  further  colloquy, 
and  I  rose  to  admit  the  intruder. 

Harrison  and  I  generally  wrote  in  an  inner  rooffl,  which 
opened  into  the  public  office  ;  and  a  passage  led  from  the  apart- 
ment we  occupied,  into  Mr.  Moncton's  private  study,  m  which 
he  generally  spent  the  fore-part  of  the  day,  and  in  which  he 
received  persons  who  came  to  consult  him  on  particular  busirtcss. 


'>iWv 


TOR    M  0  .V  !■  r  0  V  a. 


At 


speech,  lio  turned 
ally  foaming  w  'b 

"  ?*v  (leir  Geoff, 
indeed  be  i  blcss- 

;hat  I  migh    have 


n  scarcelj  control 

•vent  for  you." 
!ly  annoying,  must 

war  in  the  camp, 
bis  father's  anger, 
nits  London  in  dis- 
ange  in  the  donies- 
'risoi\." 

than  yon  do.  To 
}u  into  favor.  If 
igeful,  80  unforgiv- 


•  channels  through 

ai  further  colloquy, 

inner  rooffl,  which 
led  from  the  apart- 
ate  study,  In  virhich 
J,  and  in  which  ho 
particular  busirtess. 


On  opening  the  door  which  h-d  into  tlie  public  office,  a  woman 
wnippcd  closely  iii  u  l>iiick  cumblet  cloak,  glidctl  into  the  room. 
iliT  face  wm  m  completely  concealed  by  the  larj^e  calasli  and 
veil  she  wore,  and,  l)iit  for  the  stoop  in  tlie  siionldcrs,  it  would 
have  been  (li,1icnlt  at  a  first  glance  to  liave  determined  her  age. 
"Is  Mr.  Moiicton  at  home?"  Her  voice  was  harsh  and 
unpleasant  ;  it  had  a  hissing,  grating  intoua''  u,  which  was 
painful  to  the  ear. 

The  moment  the  stranger  spoke,  I  saw  Fnrri,sc'  art,  and 
turn  very  pale.  He  rose  hastily  from  his  f  \,.  \C,  .  .tilfed  to  a 
case  of  law-books  which  stood  in  a  dark  rr  ;..  ai  '  taking  down 
a  volume,  continued  standing  with  his  bnck  V  uvrla  us,  as  if 
intently  occupied  with  its  contents. 

This  cinunistance  made  me  regard  i  <•  vnnnn  with  more 
attention.  She  api)eared  about  si.xty  years  of  age.  Her  face 
was  sharp,  her  eyes  black  and  smike-like,  while  her  brow  was 
channelled  into  deep  furrows  that  made  you  think  it  almost 
impossible  that  she  had  ever  been  young  or  handsome.  Her 
npper  lip  was  unusually  short,  and  seemed  to  writhe  with  a 
perpetual  sneer;  and  in  spite  of  her  corrugated  brow,  long  nose, 
Hud  curved  chin,  which  bore  the  unmistakable  marks  of  age, 
her  fine  teeth  gleamed  white  and  ghastly,  when  she  unclosed  her 
lieshless,  thin  lips.  A  human  creature  with  a  worse,  or  more 
sinister  aspect,  I  have  seldom,  during  the  course  of  my  life, 
beheld. 

In  answci'  to  her  inquiry,  I  informed  her  that  Mr.  Moncton 
was  at  home,  but  particularly  engaged  ;  and  had  given  orders 
for  no  one  to  be  admitted  to  his  study  before  noon. 

With  a  look  of  bitter  disappointment,  she  then  asked  to  speak 
to  Mr.  Tiieophilus. 

*'  He  has  just  left  for  France,  and  will  not  return  for  several 


years." 
"  Gone 


If 


and  I  am  too  late,"  she  muttered  to  herself 
I  cannot  see  the  son,  I  must  and  will  speak  to  the  father." 
"  Your  business  then,  was  with  Mr.  Theophilus  ?"  said  I,  no 


i 


6S 


T  n  K     M  0  N  C  1  0  S  8  . 


longer  able  to  restrain  my  curioaity,  for  I  was  tlying  to  learn 
Bonietliing  of  tlie  strange  being  whose  prcHcnce  had  given  my 
friend  Harrison'o  nerves  sucli  a  sudden  shoclc. 

"  Impertinent  boy  !"  she  said  with  evident  displeasure. 
"  Who  taught  you  to  catechise  your  ciders  ?  Go,  and  tell  your 
employer  that  Dimh  North  is  here ;  and  must  see  liim  ini me- 
diately." 

As  I  passed  the  dark  nook  in  which  Harrison  was  playmg 
lit  hide-and-seek,  he  laid  his  hand  upon  my  arm,  and  wliispered  iu 
French,  a  language  he  spoke  fluently,  and  in  wliich  he  had  been 
giving  mo  lessons  for  some  time,  "  My  happiness  is  deeply  con- 
cerned in  yon  hag's  commission.  Read  well  Moncton's  counte- 
nance, and  note  down  his  words,  while  you  deliver  her  message, 
and  report  your  observations  to  me." 

I  looked  up  in  his  face  with  astonishment.  His  countenance 
was  livid  with  excitement  and  agitation,  and  his  whole  frame 
trembled.  Before  I  could  utter  a  word,  he  had  quitted  the  office. 
Amazed  and  bewildered,  I  glanced  back  towards  the  being  who 
was  the  cause  of  this  emotion,  and  whom  I  now  regarded  with 
intense  interest. 

She  had  sunk  down  into  Harrison's  vacant  seat,  her  elbows 
supported  on  her  knees,  and  her  head  resting  between  the  palms 
cf  her  hands.  Her  face  completely  concealed  from  observation. 
"  Dinah  North,"  I  whispered  to  myself;  "that  is  a  name  I  never 
heard  before.  Who  the  deuce  can  she  bo  ?"  With  a  flushea 
cheek  and  hurried  step  I  hastened  to  my  uncle's  study  to  deliver 

her  message. 

I  found  him  alone  ;  he  was  seated  at  the  table,  looking  over 
a  long  roil  of  parchment.  He  was  much  displeased  at  the  inter- 
ruption, and  reproved  me  in  a  stern  voice  for  disobeying  his  posi- 
tive  orders  ;  and,  by  way  of  conciliation,  I  repeated  ray  en-and. 

"Tell  that  woman,"  he  cried,  in  a  voice  hoarse  with  emotion, 
"  that  I  will  not  see  her  1  nor  any  one  belonging  to  her." 

"The  mystery  thickens,"  thought  I.  "What  can  all  th« 
mean  ?" 


'*«*i&.^^irlFi4.yj^*iK''-^--%'»»«'  ■■ 


*  ■ 


TU  IC     M  I)  .V  0  T  <l  N  S 


03 


ts  (lying  to  learn 
CO  had  given  my 

ilent  (li.s|)luasure. 
Go,  anil  tell  your 
st  see  liim  initne- 

•ison  was  jilaying 
,  and  whispered  in 
diich  he  had  been 
lesH  is  deeply  con- 
Moncton's  counte- 
iliver  her  message, 

His  countenance 

i  his  whole  frame 

quitted  the  office. 

,rds  the  lieiiig  who 

ow  regarded  with 

it  seat,  her  elbows 
between  the  palms 
I  from  observation. 
;  is  a  name  I  never 
"  With  a  flushed 
e'8  study  to  deliver 

table,  looking  over 
leased  at  the  inter- 
[lisobeying  his  posi- 
epeatcd  ray  en-and. 
larse  with  emotion, 
;ing  to  her." 
What  can  all  thii 


"  On  re-entering  the  oHIco,  I  found  the  old  woman  huddled  u|l 
ill  liur  wet  ciol'ius,  in  tliu  name  dejected  attitude  in  wliieli  I  had 
ici't  htT.     When  I  addressed  her,  she  raised  her  head  with  a  fierce, 
naiuieing  gesture.     She  evidently  mistook  mo  for  Mr.  Moiicton, 
and   smiled   disdainfully   on  iierceiving   her    error.      When    I 
repeated  his  answer,  it  was  received  with  a  bitter  and  derisive 
laugh. 
"  He  will  not  see  me  ?" 
"  I  have  given  you  my  uncle's  answer." 
"  Uncle!"  she  cried,  with  a  repetition  of  the  same  horrid  laugh. 
"  By  courtesy,  I  suppose  ;  I  was  not  aware  that  there  was 
nnoihcr  shoot  of  that  accursed  tree." 

I  gazed  upon  her  like  one  in  a  dream.  The  old  woman  drew 
u  slip  of  pajier  from  her  bosom,  bidding  me  convey  t/uU  to  my 
wurlhy  uncle,  and  ask  him,  in  her  name,  "whether  he,  or  his  sou, 
dared  to  refuse  admittance  to  the  bearer." 

I  took  the  billet  from  her  withered  hand,  and  once  more  pro- 
ceeded to  the  study.  As  I  passed  through  the  passage,  an  irre- 
sistible impulse  of  curiosity  induced  me  to  read  the  paper,  which 
was  neatly  folded  (although  unsealed)  together,  and  my  eyo 
glanced  upon  the  following  words,  traced  in  characters  of  uncom- 
uion  beauty  aud  delicacy  ; 

"  If  Robert  Monclon  refuses  to  admit  my  claims,  and  to  do  nw  justice,  I 
will  expose  bis  viUuiuy,  aad  iiis  son's  heartless  desertion,  to  tlic  world. 

"A.  M." 
I 

I  had  scarcely  read  the  mysterious  billet  than  I  felt  that  I 
had  done  wrong— had  acted  busely;  that  whatever  the  contents 
of  the  paper  entrusted  to  my  keeping  might  be,  they  were 
sacred,  and  I  had  no  right  to  violate  them'.  I  was  humbled 
and  abashed  in  my  own  eyes,  aud  the  riddle  appeared  m 
<lifl8cult  of  solution  as  ever.  My  uncle's  voice  sounded  as  omin- 
ously in  my  ears  as  the  stroke  of  a  death-bell,  as  he  call&l  mo 


'■•m 


64 


THE     M0NCT0N8. 


sharply  by  name.  Hastily  re-folding  tho  note,  I  wont  into  hit 
Rtinly,  and  jiiiiccd  it  on  tho  tnlilc  before  him,  with  an  averted 
glance  and  trembling  hand.  I  dreaded  leHt  his  keen,  clear  eyo 
should  read  guilt  in  my  conscious  face.  Fortunately  for  me,  he 
was  too  much  agitated  himself  to  notice  my  confusion,  lie 
eagerly  clutched  the  paper,  and  his  aspect  grew  dark  as  ho 
perused  it. 

"Geoffrey,"  he  said,  and  his  voice,  generally  so  clear  and 
passionless,  sunk  into  a  choking  whisper,  "Is  that  woman 
gone  ?" 

"  No,  uncle,  she  is  still  there,  and  dares  you  to  refuse  her 

admittance." 

I  had  thought  Robert  Moncton  icy  and  Immovable— that  his 
blood  never  flowed  like  the  blood  of  other  men.  I  had  deceived 
myself.  Beneath  the  snow-capped  mountain,  the  volcano  con- 
ceals its  hottest  fires.  My  uncle's  cold  exterior  was  but  the  icy 
crust  that  hid  tho  fierce  passions  that  burnt  within  his  breast. 
Ho  forgot  my  presence  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  and 
that  stern,  unfeeling  eye  blazed  with  lurid  fire. 

"  Fool  I— madman— insane  idiot  I"  he  cried,  tearing  the  note 
to  pieces,  and  trampling  on  the  fragments  in  his  ungovernable 
rage  j  "  how  have  you  marred  your  own  fortune,  destroyed  your 
best  hopes,  and  annihilated  all  my  plans  for  your  future  advance- 
ment 1"  1- 

Suddenly  he  became  conscious  of  my  presence,  and  glancing 
at  me  with  his  usual  iron  gravity,  said,  with  an  expression  of 
haughty  indifference,  as  if  my  opinion  of  bis  extraordinary  con 
duct  was  a  matter  of  no  importance, 

"  Geoffrey,  go  and  tell  that  mad-woman But  no.     T 

will  go  myself." 

He  advanced  to  the  door,  seemed  again  irresolute,  and  finally 
bade  me  show  her  into  the  study.  Dinah  North  rose  with  alao 
rity  to  obey  the  summons,  and  for  a  person  of  her  years,  seemed 
to  possess  great  activity  of  mind  and  body.     I  felt  a  secret 


lo 
ei 

ar 

vi 
h( 

ki 
pr 

Wl 

H 

hii 
pn 

Ii 
ca 

UK 

ba 
Gt 

coi 

SOI 

th( 
an( 


infi 


me 

wh 
mi) 
the 

I 

wit 


^& 


te,  I  wont  into  hli 
im,  with  an  averted 
his  keen,  clear  eyo 
•tmiately  for  ine,  lie 
my  confusion,  llo 
t  grew  dark  as  ho 

irally  so  clear  and 
"  Is   that  woman 

you  to  refuse  her 

unlovable — that  his 
en.  I  had  deceived 
n,  the  volcano  con- 
rior  was  but  the  icy 
it  within  his  breast, 
of  the  moment,  and 
re. 

ied,  tearing  the  note 
in  his  ungovernable 
tune,  destroyed  your 
your  future  advance- 

ssence,  and  glancing 
ith  an  expression  of 
3  extraordinary  cou 

n But  no.    I 

rresolute,  and  finally 
iforth  rose  with  alao 
of  her  years,  seemed 
dy.     I  felt  a  secret 


TH  R 


loathing  for  tho  hug,  and  pitied  my  uncle  the  unpleasant  confef 
euce  which  I  was  certain  awaited  him. 

Mr.  Monctoir  had  resumed  his  seat  in  his  large  study  chair, 
and  he  rose  with  such  calm  dignity  to  receive  his  unwelcome 
visitor,  that  liis  late  agitation  appeared  a  delusion  of  my  owu 
heated  imagination. 

Curiosity  was  one  of  ray  besetting  sins.  Ah,  how  I  longed  to 
know  the  substance  of  their  discourso  ;  for  I  felt  a  mysterious 
presentiment  that  in  some  way  or  another,  my  future  destiny 
was  connected  with  this  stranger.  I  recalled  the  distress  of 
Harrison,  the  dark  hints  he  had  thrown  out  respecting  me,  and 
his  evident  knowledge,  not  only  of  the  old  woman,  but  of  the 
purport  of  her  visit. 

I  was  tortured  with  conjectures,  I  lingered  in  the  passage. 
I  applied  my  ear  to  the  key-hole  ;  but  tho  conversation  was 
carried  on  in  too  low  a  tone  for  me  even  to  distinguish  a  solitary 
monosyllabio  ;  and  ashamed  of  acting  the  part  of  a  spy,  I  stole 
back  with  noiseless  steps  to  my  place  in  the  ofiBce,  I  found 
George  at  his  desk  ;  his  face  was  very  pale,  and  I  thought  I 
could  perceive  the  trace  of  tears  on  his  swollen  eye-lids.  For 
some  time  he  wrote  on  in  silence,  without  asking  a  word  about 
the  secret  that  I  was  burning  to  tell.  I  was  the  first  to  speak 
and  lead  him  to  the  subject. 

"  Dear  George,  do  you  know  that  horrible  old  woman  ?" 
"  Too  well  ;  she  is  my  grandmother,  and  nursed  me  in  my 
infancy." 

"  Then,  what  made  you  so  an.\ious  to  avoid  a  recognition  ?" 
"  I  did  not  want  her  to  know  that  I  was  living.  She  believes 
me  dead  :  nay  more — "  he  cor^inued,  lowering  his  voice  to  a 
whisper,  "  she  thinks  she  murdered  me.  His  lips  quivered  as  he 
murmured,  in  half-smothered  tones  :  "And  she— the  beautiful, 
the  lost  one — what  will  become  of  her  ?" 

"  Oh,  Harrison  I"  I  cried,  "  do  speak  out ;  nor  torture  me 
with  these  dark  hints.     If  you  are  a  true  friend,  give  me  your 


Ti  taj(sri»i««« 


m 


'['■•)•  V 


60 


THE     M  0  N  C  T  0  N  S  . 


whole  confidence,  nor  let  your  silence  give  nae  to  puiaful  conjeo 
lures  and  doubts.  I  liare  no  concealments  from  yon.  Such 
mental  reservntion  on  your  part  is  every  thing  but  kind." 

"  I  frankly  acknowledge  that  you  have  just  cause  tt  suspect 
me,"  said  George,  with  his  usual  sad,  winning  smile.  "  But  this 
is  not  a  safe  place  to  discuss  matters  of  vital  interest  to  us 
both — matters  which  involve  life  and  death.  I  trust  to  clear 
up  the  mystery  one  of  these  days,  and  for  that  purpose  I  am 
here.  But  tell  me  :  how  did  Mouctoa  receive  thih  woman — 
this  Dinali  North  ?" 

I  related  the  scene,  without  omitting  the  dishonorable  part  I 
bad  acted  in  it.  When  I  repeated  the  contents  of  the  note,  his 
calm  face  crimsoned  with  passion,  his  eyes  flashed,  and  his  lips 
quivered  with  indignation. 

'•  Yes,  I  thought  it  would  come  to  that  ;  unhappy,  miserable 
Alice  I  how  could  you  bestow  the  affections  of  a  warm,  true 
heart  on  a  despicable  wretch  like  Tiieophilus  Moncton.  The 
old  fiend's  ambition  and  tiiis  fatal  passion  have  been  your  ruin." 

For  some  time  he  remained  with  his  face  bowed  upon  his 
hands  ;  at  le:igth,  raising  liis  iiead,  and  turning  to  me  with 
great  animation,  he  asked  if  I  knew  any  of  my  father's  relations, 
besides  Robert  Moncton  and  his  son  ? 

"  I  was  not  aware  that  I  had  any  other  relatives." 

"They  are  by  no  means  a  prolific  race,  Geoffrey.  And  haa 
your  insatiable  curiosity  never  led  you  to  make  the  inquiry  ?" 

"  I  dared  not  ask  my  uncle.  My  aunt  told  me  that,  but  for 
them,  I  should  be  alone  in  the  world. 

"  It  was  a  subject  never  discussed  before  me,"  I  continned, 
after  a  long  pause,  in  which  George  seemed  busy  with  his  owu 
thoughts.     "  I  understood  that  my  uncle  Iiaii  only  one  brother." 

"True,"  said  George,  "  but  lie  has  a  cousin  ;  a  man  of  great 
wealth  and  consequence.  Did  you  never  hear  Tiieophilus  me»' 
tion  Sir  Alexander  Moncton  ?" 

"  Never." 


iiidi 
in  a 

Gee 
whi( 
you 
giira 
ous 
knoi 
are 
A 
plea 
had 
picti 
the 
and 


sixt( 
turt 
dest 


havi 


Tiie 
feel, 
Tlie 
crini 

Yoi 
nniit 


'^'>^i.„, 


THE      M  0  N  C  T  0  N  S  . 


67 


0  painful  conjeo 
roin  you.  Such 
ut  kind." 

:auae  t*  suspect 
iiile.     "  But  this 

1  interest  to  us 
I  trust  to  clear 
t  purpose  I  am 
}  tbih  woman — 

lionorable  part  I 

of  the  note,  his 

led,  and  his  lips 

lappy,  miserable 
of  a  warm,  true 
Moncton.  The 
been  your  ruin." 
bowed  upon  his 
ing  to  me  with 
ather's  relations, 

;ivc8." 

)ffrey.     And  has 
the  inquiry  ?" 
me  that,  but  for 

le,"  I  continued, 
usy  with  his  owu 
nly  one  brother." 
;  a  man  of  great 
Theophilus  meii' 


"Nor  to  whom  hh  long  visits  in  Yorkshire  were  made?" 

"  How  should  I  ?  No  confidence  existed  between  us.  I  was 
iiidifforent  to  all  his  movements  ;  not  imagining  that  they  could, 
ill  any  degree,  interest  me." 

"  I  begin  to  see  my  way  through  this  tangled  maze,"  returned 
George,  musingly.  "  I  now  understand  the  secluded  manner  in 
which  you  have  been  brought  up  ;  and  their  reasons  for  keeping 
you  a  prisoner  within  these  walls.  They  have  an  important 
game  to  play,  in  which  they  do  not  want  you  to  act  a  conspicu- 
ous part.  I  can  whisper  a  secret  into  your  ears  well  worth  the 
knowing — ay,  and  the  keeping,  too.  Geoffrey  Moncton,  you 
are  this  Sir  Alexander's  heir !" 

A  sudden  thrill  shot  through  my  whole  frame.  It  was  not 
pleasure,  for  at  that  moment  I  felt  sad  enough — nor  hope,  for  I 
had  long  accustomed  myself  to  look  only  on  the  dark  side  of  tho 
picture.  It  was,  I  fear,  revenge  ;  a  burning  desire  to  pay  back 
the  insults  aud  injuries  I  had  received  from  Tlieophilus  Moncton, 
and  to  frustrate  the  manoeuvres  of  his  designing  father. 

"  Has  Sir  Alexander  no  children  ?" 

"  He  has  a  daughter — an  only  daughter,  a  fair,  fragile  girl  of 
sixteen.  The  noblest,  the  most  disinterested  of  her  sex  ;  a  crea- 
ture as  talented  as  she  is  beautiful.  Margaretta  Moncton  is 
destined  to  be  the  wife  of  her  cousin  Theophilus." 

"  Does  he  love  her  ?'' 

"  How  can  you  ask  that  question,  knowing  the  man,  and  after 
having  read  the  note  addressed  to  your  uncle  ?" 

"  That  note  was  signed  A M " 

"It  was  written  by  an  unhappy,  infatuated  creature,  whom 
Theophilus  difl  love,  if  such  a  passion  as  his  callous  bosom  can 
feel,  deserves  the  name.  But  he  shall  not  escape  my  vengeance. 
The  arrow  is  in  the  bow,  and  a  punishment  as  terrible  as  his 
crime,  shall  overtake  him  yet." 

"  Oh,  that  you  would  enter  more  fully  into  these  dark  detailg. 
You  are  ingenious  at  tormenting.  I  am  bewildered  and  losf 
amid  these  half  disclosures. 


m 


■iS- 


\Vv 


68 


THE     M0NCT0N3. 


•  -9 


"  Hush,  Geoffrey  1  these  walls  have  ears.  I,  too,  am  to^ 
tured,  maddened  by  your  quest!  3.  You  are  too  imprudent — • 
too  impulsive,  to  trust  with  matters  of  such  vital  importuice  ;  I 
have  revealed  too  much  already.  Try  aud  forget  the  eveuts  of 
this  morning — nor  let  your  uncle  discover  by  look,  word  or  ges- 
ture, that  you  are  in  the  possession  of  his  secret.  He  is  deeply 
offended  with  his  son — uot  on  account  of  his  base  conduct  to  this 
poor  orphan  girl — Out,  because  it  is  likely  to  hinder  his  marriage 
with  Miss  Moncton,  which  has  been  for  years  the  idol  wish  of 
his  heart.  His  morase  spirit,  once  aroused,  is  deadly  and 
implacable  ;  and  in  order  to  make  Thcophilus  feel  the  full 
weight  of  his  anger,  he  may  call  you  to  (ill  his  vacant  place." 

The  sou::d  of  Mr.  Moncton's  step  in  the  passage,  put  a  sudden 
stop  to  our  conversation,  but  enough  had  been  said  to  rouse  my 
curiosity  to  the  highest  pitch  ;  aud  I  tried  in  vain  to  lift  the 
darl  veil  of  futurity — to  penetrate  the  mysteries  that  Its  folds 
concealed. 


CH  AFTER    X. 


DREAMS. 


I  WENT  to  bed  early,  and  tried  in  vain  to  sleep.  The  events 
i  f  the  past  day  swam  continually  through  my  brain,  aud  brought 
on  a  nervous  headache.  All  the  blood  in  my  body  seemed 
concentered  in  my  head,  leaving  my  feet  and  hands  paralyzed 
with  cold.  After  tossing  about  for  r'uny  hours,  I  dropped  off 
into  a  sort  of  mesmeric  sleep,  full  of  confused  images,  among 
which  the  singular  face  of  Dinah  North  haunted  me  like  the 
genius  o'l  thfe  night-mare. 

Dreams  are  one  of  the  greatest  mysteries  in  the  unsolved 
problem  of  life.     I  have  been  u  dreamer  from  my  cradle,  and  if 


any 
of  I 
I 
be 
the: 
spir 
able 
wril 
of  f 

in  G 

men 

higb 

qual 

B 

eye 

eartl 

soun 

Tl 

loud 

tenfc 

li 

discli 

hidec 

mind 

yield 

cond( 

"( 

I  ; 

dark, 
my  w 
my  b 
throa 
out  r 
8tren< 


»>t  L 


I,  too,  am  to^ 
•e  too  imprudent — • 
itdl  importance  ;  I 
>rget  the  ereuts  of 
look,  word  or  ges- 
ret.  He  is  deeply 
ase  conduct  to  this 
tiuder  his  marriage 
■3  the  idol  wish  of 
ed,  is  deadly  and 
iiilus  feel  the  full 
3  vacant  place." 
isage,  put  a  suddeu 
:ii  said  to  rouse  my 
in  vain  to  lift  tiie 
eries  that  its  folds 


sleep.  The  events 
brain,  and  brought 
my  body  seemed 
d  hands  paralyzed 
lurs,  I  dropped  off 
led  images,  among 
luted  me  like  che 

iS  in  the  unsolve<i 
I  my  cradle,  and  if 


THE     MONCTONS. 

any  person  could  explain  the  phenomena,  the  practical  experiecce 
of  a  lo!!g  life  ought  to  have  invested  me  with  that  power. 

Most  persons,  in  spite  of  themselves  (or  what  they  consider  to 
be  their  better  judgment),  attach  a  superstitious  importance  to 
these  visions  of  the  night ;  nor  is  the  vague  belief  in  the 
spiritual  agency  employed  in  dreams,  diminished  by  the  remark- 
able dreams  and  their  fulfillment,  which  are  recorded  in  Holy 
writ,  the  verity  of  which  we  are  taught  to  believe  as  an  article 
of  faith. 

My  eyes  are  sca.cely  closed  in  sleep,  before  I  become  an  actor 
m  scenes  of  the  most  ludicrous  or  terrific  nature.  All  my 
mental  and  physicaJ  faculties  become  intensified,  and  enjoy  the 
highcht  state  of  perfection  ;  as  if  the  soul  centered  in  itself  the 
qualities  of  its  mysterious  triune  existence. 

Beautiful  visions  float  before  the  sight,  such  as  the  waking 
eye  never  beheld  ;  and  the  ear  is  ravished  with  music  which  no 
earthly  skill  could  produce.  The  dreaming  sense  magnifies  all 
sounds  and  sights  which  exist  in  nature. 

The  thunder  deepens  its  sonorous  tone— ocean  sends  up  a 
louder  voice,  and  the  whirlwind  shakes  the  bending  forest  with 
tenfold  fury. 

I  hafe  beheld  in  sleep  the  mountains  reel ;  the  yawning  earth 
disclose  her  hidden  depths,  and  the  fiery  abyss  swarm  with 
hideous  forms,  which  no  waking  eye  could  contemplate  and  the 
mind  retain  its  rationality.  I  have  beheld  the  shrinking  sea 
yield  up  the  dead  of  ages,  and  have  found  myself  a  guilty  and 
tondomned  wretch,  trembling  at  the  bar  of  Eternal  Justice. 

"  Oh  !  what  have  I  not  beheld  in  sleep  ?" 

I  have  been  shut  up,  a  living  sentient  creature,  in  the  cold 
dark,  noisome  grave  ;  have  felt  the  fcathsome  worm  slide  along 
my  warm,  quivering  limbs  ;  the  toad  find  a  resting-place  upon 
my  breast ;  the  adder  wreath  her  slimy  folds  round  my  swelling 
throat ;  have  struggled  against  the  earthly  weight  that  pressed 
out  my  soul  and  palsied  my  burstmg  heart,  with  superhuman 
strength  ;  but  every  effort  to  free  myself  from  my  prison  of  clay 


1 

,  k 

.4 

i 


THE     M  0  X  C  T  O  N  d  . 


was  made  in  vain.  My  lips  were  motionless — my  tongue  clove 
to  the  roof  of  my  moutii  and  refused  to  send  forth  a  sound. 
Hope  was  extinct — I  was  beyond  the  reach  of  human  aid  ;  and 
that  tuental  agony  rendered  rac  as  powerless,  as  a  moth  in  the 
grasp  of  a  giant. 

I  have  stood  npon  the  edge  of  the  volcano,  and  listened  to 
the  throbbings  of  Nature's  fiery  heart ;  and  lieard  the  boiling 
blood  of  earth,  chafing  and  roaring  far  below  ;  while  my  eyes 
vainly  endeavored  to  explore  its  glowing  depths.  Anon,  by 
gome  fatal  necessity,  I  was  compelled  to  cross  this  terrible  abyss 
— my  bridge,  a  narrow  plank  insecurely  placed  upon  the  rounded 
Btems  of  two  yielding,  sapling  trees.  Suddenly,  frightful  cries 
resounded  on  every  side,  and  I  was  pursued  by  fiend-iike  forms 
in  the  shape  of  animal  life.  I  put  my  foot  upon  the  fearful 
bridge,  I  tried  its  strength,  and  felt  a  horrid  consciousness  that 
J  never  could  pass  over  it  in  safety  ;  my  supernatural  enemies 
drew  nearer — I  saw  their  blazing  eyes — heard  their  low  muttered 
growls  ;  the  next  moraoiit  I  leaped  upon  the  plank — with  a  loud 
crash  it  severed — and  witli  the  fclocity  of  thought,  I  was  plunged 
headlong  into  the  boiling  gnlf — down — down — down— for  ever 
whir'.ing  down — the  hot  flood  ru.shed  ovtr  me.  I  felt  the  spas- 
modic grasp  of  death  upon  my  throat,  and  awoke  struggling 
with  eternity  upon  the  threshold  of  time. 

Most  persons  of  a  reflective  character,  have  kept  a  diary  of 
the  ordinary  occurrences  of  life.  I  reversed  tliis  time,  honored 
mental  exercise  ;  and  for  some  months,  noted  down  wluit  I 
could  remember  of  the  transactions  of  the  mind,  during  its 
sleeping  hours. 

So  wild  and  strange  were  these  records — so  eccentric  the 
vagaries  of  the  soul  during  its  nocturnal  wanderings,  that  I  was 
induced  to  abandon  the  task,  lest  some  friend  hereafter,  might 
examine  the  mystic  scroll,  and  conclude  that  it  was  written  by 
a  maniac. 

It  happened,  that  on  the  present  night,  I  was  haunted  by  a 
dream  ot  more  than  ordinary  wildness. 


Il 

Band, 
Eea. 
the  w 
veu  b 
tide  0 
air. 
I'd  the 
A  » 
but  di 
and  cr 
ted  fo 
amid  I 
tlie  tw 
zied  gi 
were  d 
Onw 
of  wini^ 
At  1 
cast  to 
v.ounde 
as  the 
sort  of 
to  iraag 
Whi 
in  the  h 
son,  I  o 
'ittle  edi 
|>f  drea* 
'car,  an 
f^hrubs  t 
Agiiui 
1   was 
deserts 


I!  '11 


mKmmm»M?  *it,-vfiVjtfi|B.>', 


THE     MO  X  C  T  O  \  S  . 


n 


my  tongue  clavft 
1  forth  a  sound, 
bnman  aid  ;  and 
as  a  moth  in  the 

,  and  listened  to 
eard  the  boilinp^ 
;  while  my  eyes 
)ths.  Anon,  by 
his  terrible  abyss 
upon  the  rounded 
ly,  frightful  cries 
y  fiend-iike  forms 
upon  the  fearful 
onsciousness  that 
ernatural  enemies 
heir  low  muttered 
ank — witli  a  loud 
ht,  I  was  plunged 
— down— for  ever 
I  felt  the  spas- 
awoke  struggling 

e  kept  a  diary  of 
his  time,  honored 
,ed  down  wliat  I 
mind,   during   its 

-so  eccentric  the 
erings,  that  I  was 
I  hereafter,  might 
it  was  written  by 

uras  haunted  by  s 


I  dreamt,  that  J  stood  in  the  centre  of  a  boundless  plain  of 
sand,  that  undulated  beneath  my  feet  like  the  waves  of  the 
Eea.  Presently  I  heard  the  rushing  of  a  mighty  wind,  and  aa 
tne  whirl-blast  swept  over  the  desert,  clouds  of  sand  were  dri- 
yen  before  it.  and  1  was  lifted  off  n.y  feet  and  carried  along  the 
tide  of  dust  as  lightly  as  a  leaf  is  whirled  onward  through  the 
air.  All  objects  fled  as  I  advf.nced,  and  each  moment  inoreas- 
fcd  the  velocity  of  my  flight. 

A  vast  forest  extended  its  gu)omy  arms  athwart  the  horizon  • 
but  did  not  arrest  my  aerial  journey.  The  thick  boughs  groaned 
and  crashed  beneath  me,  as  J  was  dragged  through  their  mat. 
ted  foliage  ;  my  limbs  lacerated  and  torn,  and  my  hair  tangled 
aniid  the  thorny  branches.  Vainly  I  endeavored  to  cling  to 
tlie  tw.gs  that  impeded  my  passage,  but  they  eluded  my  fren- 
zied grasp,  or  snapped  in  ,uy  hands,  while  my  cries  for  help 
were  drowned  in  the  thundering  sweep  of  the  mighty  gale 

Onward-onward.  1  w..s  still  flying  onward  without  the  aid 
ol  wings.     There  seemed  no  end  to  that  interminable  flight 

At  length,  when  I  least,  expected  a  change,  I  was  suddenly 
cast  to  the  bottom  of  a  d,  ep  pit.  The  luxury  of  r.pose  to  my 
wounded  and  exhausted  frame,  was  as  grateful  and  refreshing 
as  the  dews  of  heaven  to  tiie  long  parched  earth.  I  lay  ia  a 
sort  of  pleasing  helplessness,  too  glad  to  escape  from  past  perils 
to  imagine  a  recurrence  of  the  same  evil. 

While  dreamily  watching  the  swallows,  tendinj- 
in  the  holes  of  the  sandy  bank  that  formed  the  w;? 
son,  I  observed  the  sand  at  the  bottom  of  the  pit 
Httle  eddies  and  whirling  round  and  round,     A  sii 
of  dread  stole  over  me,  and  I  crouched  down  ii 
fear,  and  clung  with  all  my  strength  to  the  ti 
.^iirubs  that  clothed  the  sides  of  the  pit. 

Again  the  wind-fiend  caught  me  up  on  his  bi  td  pinions,  and 
1  was  once  more  traversing  with  lightning  speed  the  azure 
deserts  of  air.    A   burning  heat  was  in  my  throat— my  eyes 


■  young 

my  pri- 

,'ht  up  in 

ng  feeling 

agony  of 

of  thorny 


f 


fa 


THE    M  0  N  C      0  N  9, 


seemed  bursting  from  their  sockets-confused  sounds  were  innr- 
muring  iu  my  ear^,  and  the  very  blackness  of  darkness  swal- 
lowed mo  up.  ^^o  longer  carried  upward,  I  was  now  rapidly 
descending  from  some  tremendous  height.  I  stretched  forth 
my  hands  to  grasp  some  tangible  substance  in  order  to  break 
the  horrors  of  that  fall,  but  all  above,  around  and  beneath  me 
was  empty  air  ;-thc  effort  burst  the  chains  of  that  ghastly 
.lumber,  and  I  awoke  with  a  short  stilled  cry  of  terror,  exclaim- 
ing with  devotional  fervor,  "Thank  God!  it  is  only  a  dream  !" 
The  damp  dews  stood  in  large  drops  upon  my  brow,  my 
hands  were  tightly  clenched,  and  every  hair  upon  my  head 
seemed  stiffened  and  erect  with  fear. 

"  Thank  God  I"  I  once  more  exclaimed  in  an  agony  of  grati- 
tude, "  it  is  only  a  dream  1" 

Ti.en  arose  the  question:  "What  was  the  import  of  this 
dream,  the  effects  of  which  1  still  felt  through  all  my  trembling 
frame-in  the  violent  throbbing  of  my  heart  and  the  ghastly 
cessation  of  every  emotion  save  that  of  horror?" 

Then  ]  began  to  ponder,  as  I  had  done  a  thousand  times 
before,  over  the  mysterious  nature  of  dreams,  the  manner  in 
which 'they  had  been  employed  by  the  Almighty  to  communi- 
cate important  truths  to  mo.nkind,  until  I  came  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  dreams  were  revelations  from  the  spirit  land,  to  warn 
us  of  dangers  that  threatened,  or  to  punish  us  for  ccimes  com- 
mited  iu  the  flesh. 

"  What  are  the  visions   that   haunt  the  murderer's  bed,"  I 
thought,  "  but  phantoms  of  the  past  recalled  by  memory  and 
conscience,  and  invested  with  an  actual  presence  in  sleep  ?" 
Dr.  Young,  that  melancholy  dreamer  of  sublime  dreams,  has 

Bald — 

"  If  dreams  infest  the  grave, 
I  wake  emerging  from  a  sea  of  dreams." 

What  a  terrible  idea  of  future  punishment  is  contained  in 


the: 
abl( 
hell 

aloi 

bea 

wali 

I 

the 

disti 

Kud( 

seen 

T 

wlii( 

bool 

befo 

true 

Moil 

able 

Tl 

stair 

cliau 

easily 

Fi 

chesi 

It 

aparl 

had  i^ 

My  a 

keari 

«)dei 

"g 

room, 

barn 


-tl      '•* 


d  sounds  were  inor- 
of  darkness  swal- 
I  was  now  rapidly 
I  stretched  forth 
>  ill  order  to  break 
lid  and  beneath  me 
ins  of  tliat  ghastly 
f  of  terror,  exclaim- 
t  is  only  a  dream  !" 
upon  my  brow,  ray 
liair  upon  my  head 

1  an  agony  of  grati- 

the  import  of  this 
gh  all  my  trembling 
iart  and  the  ghastly 
)r?" 

le  a  thousand  times 
ams,  the  manner  in 
mighty  to  communi- 
came  to  the  conclu- 
s  spirit  land,  to  warn 
}h  us  for  CTtmes  com- 

e  murderer's  bed,"  I 
lUed  by  memory  and 
ssence  in  sleep  ?" 
sublime  dreams,  has 


I  reams." 

ment  is  contained  in 


THE      M  0  N  C  T  O  N  a  . 

these  words  to  one,  whose  sleep  like  mine  is  haunted  by  unutter- 
able terrors.  Think  of  an  eternity  of  dreaming  horrors.  A 
he!!  condensed  within  the  narrow  resting-place  of  the  grave. 

My  reveries  were  abruptly  dispelled  by  tiie  sound  of  steps 
along  the  passage  that  led  to  my  chamber.  My  heart  began  to 
beat  audibly.  It  was  the  dead  hour  of  tiie  night— who  could  be 
waking  at  such  an  unnsual  time  ?  I  sat  up  in  the  bed  and  listened. 

I  heard  voices  :  two  persons  were  talking  in  a  loud  tone  in 
the  passiigp,  that  was  certain.  For  a  long  time,  I  could  not 
distinguish  one  word  from  another,  until  my  own  name  was 
suddenly  pronounced  in  a  louder  key  j  and  iu  a  voice  which 
seemed  perfectly  familiar  to  my  ears. 

The  garret  in  which  I  slept,  was  a  long,  low,  dingy  apal-tment 
which  formed  a  sort  of  repository,  for  nil  the  worn-out  law 
books,  and  waste  papers  belonging  ,  ti,,.  office,  and,  as  I  have 
before  stated,  the  only  furniture  >.t  ..osstdsed,  was  a  mean 
truckle  bed  on  which  I  slept,  and  a  hir-e  iron  chest,  which  Mr. 
Moncton  had  informed  me,  contained  title  deeds  and  other  valu- 
able  papers,  of  which  he  himself  kept  the  key. 

They  were  kept  in  my  apartment  for  better  security  ;  as  the 
stair  which  led  to  the  flat  roof  of  the  house,  opened  into  that 
chamber,  and  ia  case  of  fire,  the  chest  and  its  contents  could  be 
easily  removed. 

For  a  wonder,  I  had  never  felt  the  least  curiosity  about  the 
chest  and  its  contents. 

It  stood  in  the  old  place,  the  day  I  first  entered  that  dismal 
apartment  when  a  child,  and  durj.g  the  many  long  years  that 
bad  slowly  intervened,  I  never  recollected  having  seen  it  unclosed. 
My  attention  for  the  first  time  was  d?awn  to  its  existence  by 
kearing  my  uncle  say  to  some  one  in  the  passage  in  a  hm>ried 
■nder-tone. 

"  Set  yonr  mind  at  rest,  the  paper  is  in  the  iron  chest  in  that 
room.  If  you  will  not  rely  upon  my  promise  to  destroy  it  I  will 
burn  it  before  your  eyes." 


M 


u 


T  U  K     M  0  N  C  T  O  N  3  . 


"That  alone  will  satisfy  my  doubts,"  returned  his  companion, 
Be  cautious  how  you  open  tlie  door,  or  die  lad  will  awake." 

"  Nonsense,  young  folks  like  him  sleep  well." 

"  Ay,  Robert  Moncton,  they  are  uot  troubled  with  an  evil 
conscience." 

This  last  observation  was  accompanied  with  a  low  sarcastic 
laugh— and  with  an  involuntary  shiver,  I  recognized  in  the 
speaker,  the  mysterious  old  woman  who  had  haunted  my  dreams. 

"Conscience  never  troubles  me,  Dinah,"  returned  Moncton, 
gloomily.  "  You  Erst  taught  me  to  drown  its  warning  voice, 
till  my  heart  became  callous  and  dead  alike  to  God  aud  man. 
Yes,  you  will  laugh  at  me  when  I  declare,  that  I  would  give  all 
that  I  possess  in  the  world,  to  feel  again  the  remorse  I  felt  after 
I  joined  you  in  the  commission  of  that  unholy  deed.  You  were 
the  tempt;:.  To  you  I  owe  this  moral  death.  This  awful 
stagnation  of  heart,  which  I  find  worse  to  bear  than  the  fiercest 
paiu." 

"You  were  an  apt  pupil,"  said  the  woman.  "All  your 
natural  tendencies  were  evil.  I  only  fostered  and  called  them 
out.  But  what  is  the  use  of  recalling  unpleasant  truths.  Why 
don't  you  silence  memory,  when  you  have  ceased  to  feel  remorse. 
But  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Moncton.  The  nresence  of  the  one 
proves  the  existence  of  the  other.  The  serpent  is  sleeping  in 
his  coil,  and  one  of  these  days  you  will  feel  the  strength  of  his 
fangs.  Is  this  the  door  that  leads  to  his  chamber  ?  You  have 
chosen  a  sorry  dormitory  for  the  heir  of  the  proud  house  of 
"  Moncton." 

"  Hush  !  I  wish  he  slept  with  his  fathers.  But  even  if  he 
should  awake,  how  could  he  guess,  that  our  visit  to  his  chamber 
could  in  any  way  concern  him  ?" 

"  He  has  a  shrewd  face,  an  intelligent  eye— an  eye  to  detect 
treachery,  and  defy  danger." 

"  On  the  contrary,  a  babe  might  deceive  him." 
"  He  has  been  educated  in  too  hard  a  school  to  revel  in  such 
ignorance,  Moncton." 


1  hi»  coiupanion, 
will  awake." 

led  with  an  evil 

i)  a  low  sarcastic 
•cognized  iu  tlio 
lilted  my  dreams, 
turned  Moncton, 
3  warning  voice, 
0  Qod  and  man. 

I  would  give  all 
morse  I  felt  after 
deed.  You  were 
ith.      This  awful 

than  tlie  liercest 

lan.  "All  your 
and  called  them 
mt  truths.  Why 
id  to  feel  remorse, 
esence  of  the  one 
lent  is  sleeping  in 
iie  strength  of  his 
ber  ?  You  have 
proud  house  of 

But  even  if  he 
sit  to  his  chamber 

-an  eye  to  detect 


)i  to  revel  in  such 


THE     M0NCT0M9. 


16 


"Hold  your  tongue,  DIuqIi,  and  give  me  the  light.  Remem- 
ber how  you  were  deceived  in  his  cousin  Philip." 

Mr.  Moncton's  hand  wus  on  tue  lock  of  the  door — un  almost 
irresistible  impulso  urged  me  to  sprin;;;'  from  the  bed  aud  draw 
the  bolt.  On  second  tlioughts,  however,  I  determined  to  feign 
sleep,  and  watch  all  that  passed." 

Resistance  on  my  part  would  have  been  utterly  nscless,  and 
I  wus  anxious  to  find  out,  if  possible,  what  connexion  existed 
between  my  uncle,  George  Harrison,  and  this  strange  woman. 

All  this  darted  through  my  mind  on  the  instant  ;  the  rays  of 
the  candle  flashed  upon  the  opposite  wall  ;  and  my  uncle,  fol- 
lowed by  his  odious-looking  companion,  entered  the  room. 

My  intention  of  wftching  all  their  movements  was  com- 
l)letely  frustrated  by  Mr.  Moncton,  who,  advancing  with  can- 
tious  steps  to  my  bed-side,  held  up  the  light  in  such  a  man- 
ner as  not  only  to  reveal  my  face,  but  the  attitude  in  which 
Hay. 
"  Is  he  sleeping  ?"  he  whispered  to  his  companion. 
"He  breathes  like  one  in  a  profound  slumber,"  was  the 
reply.  "'Tis  a  fine  lad.  Bow  much  he  resembles  Sir.  Alex- 
ander ?" 

"  His  father,  rather,"  sneered  Moncton.  "  He's  a  second 
edition  of  Ned  ;  but  has  got  more  brains.  Thanks  to  his  grand- 
father, Geoffrey,  and  his  own  mother,  who  was  a  beautiful, 
talented  creature.  Stand  by  the  bed,  Dinah,  and  keep  watch 
over  him  while  I  light  that  lamp  which  he  has  left  on  the  win- 
dow-sill, and  search  for  the  papers." 

The  old  woman  took  the  light  from  Mr.  J'toncton's  hand,  and 
his  station  beside  my  bed.  My  too  lively  imagination  pictured 
the  witch-like  face,  with  its  dark,  snaky  eyes,  bending  over  me, 
and  I  found  it  impossible  to  maintain,  with  any  appearance  of 
reality,  the  composure  I  had  assumed.  In  order  to  conceal  the 
excited  state  of  my  mind,  and  to  convince  her  of  the  certainty 
of  my  pretended  slumber,  I  threw  out  my  arms,  and  began  to 
toss  and  turn,  and  mutter  in  my  sleep,  putting  on  all  the  con- 


MONCTONg, 


tortious  wliicli  generally  convulse  the  countenance  of  person* 
while  writhing  under  tiie  inllueucc  of  some  terrible  (Ireani.  A 
slate  of  perfect  quiescence  might  have  aroused  suspiciou  ;  the 
noise  I  niiide  completely  lulled  theirs  to  sleep. 

Meanwhile  ray  uncle  had  unlociied  the  chest,  and  I  heard  him 
toss  the  papers  it  contained,  upon  the  floor;  while,  from  time  to 
time,  he  gave  utterance  to  expressions  indicative  of  vexation  and 
disappointment. 

After  examining  the  ecntents  of  the  box  thoroughly,  and 
returning  the  parchments  to  their  original  place,  he  said  in  a 
niortilied  tone  : 

"  The  papers  arc  not  here.  How  they  have  been  abstracted 
I  cannot  imagine,  as  I  always  keep  the  key  in  a  private  drawer 
of  my  cabinet,  which  is  kno'  n  only  to  myself." 

"Did  you  place  them  there  yourself?"  demanded  the  old 
woman,  in  a  hurried  whisper. 

"  No,  but  Walters,  in  whom  I  placed  the  most  implicit  confi- 
dence, assured  me  that  he  placed  them  here  with  his  own  hauds. 
Ho  may,  however,  have  destroyed  them,  and  anticipated  my 
wishes." 

"And  you,  with  all  your  caution,"  sneered  Dinah  North, 
"  could  trust  an  aiFair  of  such  importance  to  another." 

"  He  was  my  creature,  sworn  to  secresy,  and  bought  with  my 
money,  whose  interest  was  to  serve,  not  to  betray  me." 

"  A  person  who  is  capable  of  receiving  a  bribe  to  perform  a 
base  action,  Moncton,  is  never  to  be  trusted,  especially  a  low- 
born fellow  like  Walters  ;  and  where,"  she  continued,  anxiously, 
"  is  this  man  to  be  found  ?" 

"  He  left  twelve  years  ago  for  America,  and  took  out  with 
him,  Michael  Alzure,  my  brother's  old  servant,  and  Mary  Earl, 
the  boy's  nurse,  who  were  the  only  witnesses  to  the  marriage. 
I  wanted  him  to  take  the  boy  himself,  and  adopt  him  into  his 
own  family,  which  would  have  saved  us  all  further  trouble,  bat 
this,  to  my  surprise,  he  positively  refused  to  do." 

"  To  what  ^art  of  America  did  he  emigrate  V 


"] 

then 

riicc' 

and  t 

six  y 

than 

"1 

want 

"Hut 

word 

been  < 

"\ 

only  ( 

to  on 

could 

My 

extinfi 

Thf 

away, 

into  a 

was  ti 


I  FC 

ance  h 
took  I 
burstii 
commc 


THE     MONCTONg. 


tenanee  of  persons 

terrible  dream.     A 

ised  KUsiii(tiou  ;  the 

). 

st,  aiiiJ  I  licurd  him 

while,  iVoiii  time  to 

,ive  of  vcxulion  and 

X  thoroughly,  and 
place,  he  suid  in  a 

vo  been  abstracted 
in  a  private  drawer 

demanded  the  old 

most  implicit  confi- 
ivith  his  own  hands, 
nd  nniicipated  my 

sred  Dinah  North, 

another." 

nd  bought  with  my 

Btray  me." 

bribe  to  perform  a 

d,  especially  a  low- 

jntinued,  anxiously, 

and  took  out  with 
nt,  and  Mary  Earl, 
!s  to  the  marriage, 
adopt  him  into  his 
further  trouble,  bat 
do." 
;e?" 


"First  to  Boston,  where  he  remained  for  three  years.  He 
then  removed  to  Philadelphia  from  the  latter  place.  1  twice 
received  letters  from  him.  lie  had  been  successful  in  business, 
and  tulked  of  buying  land  in  the  western  States  ;  for  the  lust 
MX  years  I  have  never  heard  of  him  or  from  him.  It  is  more 
than  probable  that  he  is  long  since  dead." 

"  People  whom  you  wish  out  of  the  way,  never  die  when  you 
want   them,"  said   Dinah,  with   her  peculiar  sneering   laugh. 

"  Hut  I  think  you  told  me  that  the" I  could  not  catch  the 

word  which  she  breathed  into  the  ear  of  Mr.  Moncton— "  had 
been  destroyed." 

"  Yes— yes.  I  burnt  it  with  ray  own  hand  ;  this  was  the 
only  document  of  any  consequence,  and  it  is  a  iiimdred  chances 
to  one,  that  he  cver  recovers  it,  or  mc-ts  with  the  people  who 
could  prove  his  identity." 

My  uncle  rose  from  his  knees  and  locked  the  iron  chest,  then, 
extinguishing  my  lamp,  he  and  the  old  woman  left  the  room. 

The  sound  of  their  retreating  footsteps  had  scarcely  died 
away,  when,  in  .spite  of  ray  wish  to  keep  awake,  I  dropped  oflf 
into  a  profound  sleep,  and  did  not  again  unclose  my  eyes  until  it 
was  time  to  dress  for  breakfast. 


CHAPTER    XI. 


MY    FIRST    LOVE. 


I  FOUND  my  uncle  sipping  his  coffee,  as  if  nothing  of  import- 
ance had  occurred  during  the  night,  to  disturb  his  slumbers.  I 
took  my  seat  at  the  table  in  silence.  My  heart  was  full  to 
bursting,  and  I  dared  not  trust  my  voice,  to  offer  him  th« 
common  salutations  of  the  morning. 


•  is 
t 


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78 


THK     MONCTOMS. 


1  •* 


My  fhcc,  I  have  no  doubt,  betrayed  tlio  ttgiUition  which  I 
endeavored  to  conceal. 

"  You  are  late  this  morning,  Oeoffrey." 

"  Yes  sir — I  passed  a  very  reitless  nigiit,  and  the  result  is  a 
bud"  headache  " 

"  How  did  that  happen?"  surveying  me  attentively,  with  his 
dear,  glittering  eyes. 

"  I  was  harassed  by  frightful  dreams,  and  only  awoke  from 
one  lit  of  nightrmaro  to  fall  into  a  worse." 

"  Are  you  often  troubled  with  bad  dreams  ?"  said  he,  without 
removing  his  powerful  gnzo  from  my  pale  face. 

"  Not  often  with  such  as  disturbed  mo  last  night." 

I  detected  my  uncle's  drift  in  using  this  species  of  cross-ques- 
tioning, and  I  determined  to  increase  his  uneasiness  without 
betraying  my  own. 

"I  wisii,  uncle,  I  had  never  seen  that  old  woman  who  visited 
the  office  yesterday  ;  she  haunted  me  all  night  like  my  evil 
genius.  Sir  Matthew  Hale  might  have  condemned  her  for  a 
witch,  with  a  safe  conscience." 

"  She  is  not  a  very  flattering  specimen  of  the  fair  sex,"  said 
ray  uncle,  affecting  a  laugh,  "  but  ugly  as  she  now  is,  I  remem- 
ber her  both  young  and  handsome.  What  was  the  purport  of 
your  dream  ?" 

"  Tliat  I  should  like  to  know.  The  Josephs  and  Daniels  of 
these  degenerate  modern  days,  are  makers  of  money,  not  inter- 
preters of  dreams.  But,  I  hope  you  don't  imagine  that  I  place 
the  least  importance  on  such  things.  My  dream  was  simply 
this — 

"  I  dreajned  that  that  ugly  old  womau,  whom  you  call  Dinah 
North,  came  to  my  bedside  with  an  intent  to  murder  me."  I 
paused  and  fixed  my  eyes  upon  Mr.  Moucton's  face.  The  glitter 
of  his  bright  orbs  almost  dazzled  me.  I  thought,  however,  that 
bis  cheek  paled  for  a  moment,  and  that  I  could  perceive  a  slight 
twitching  movement  about  the  muscles  of  the  mouth. 


;ituliu<>  which  I 


1  llic  result  is  a 

iitivcly,  with  his 

inly  awoke  from 

said  lie,  without 

Cht." 

cs  of  (Toss-qnes- 

.■asiness  witlioiit 

man  who  visited 
ht  like  my  evil 
inned  her  for  a 

e  fair  sex,"  said 
ow  is,  I  rcmem- 
i  the  purport  of 

and  Daniels  of 
noney,  not  inter* 
pne  that  I  place 
earn  was  simply 

1  you  call  Dinah 
murder  nie."  I 
ice.  The  glitter 
it,  however,  that 
perceive  a  slight 
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"  Well,"  he  said,  quite  calmly,  "  and  what  then  ?" 

"  For  a  long  time  I  resisted  her  efforts  to  stab  rue  with  a  long 
knife,  and  I  received  several  deep  wounds  in  my  hands,  in  endea- 
voring to  wnrd  off  her  home-thrusts  ;  till,  faint  with  loss  of  blood, 
I  gave  up  the  contest,  and  called  aloud  for  aid.  I  heard  steps 
in  the  passage— some  one  opened  the  door — it  was  you,  sir,  and 
I  begged  you  to  save  my  life,  and  unloosen  the  fiend's  grasp 
from  my  throat,  but  instead  of  the  assistance  I  expected,  you 
seized  the  knife  from  the  old  woman's  hand,  and  with  a  derisive 
hiugh,  plunged  it  to  the  hilt  in  my  heart.  I  awoke  with  a 
scream  of  agony,  and  with  the  persjjiratiou  streaming  from  every 
part  of  my  body." 

The  drenm  was  no  invention  of  the  moment,  but  had  actually 
occurred,  after  Dinah  North  and  Mr.  Moncton  had  left  my  chain- 
b<'r.     I  wished  to  see  what  impression  it  would  make  upon  him. 

He  leaned  buck  in  his  chair  with  his  eyes  still  fi.Ked  on  my 
face.  "  It  was  stningc,  very  strange — enough  to  excite  a  nerv- 
ous, irritable  fellow  like  you.  Did  you  hear  me  come  into  your 
room  last  night  ?" 

Taken  by  surprise,  I  gave  an  involuntary  start,  but  regained 
my  presence  of  mind  in  a  moment,  "  Did  you  suspect,  sir,  that 
I  was  in  the  habit  of  leaving  the  house  at  night,  that  you 
thought  it  necessary  to  ascertain  that  1  was  in  my  bed  ?" 

"  Petulant  boy  I  How  ready  you  are  to  take  offence  at 
trifles.  How  do  you  expect  to  steer  your  way  through  the 
world  ?  Business  brought  me  into  your  room  last  night.  Some 
papers  belonging  to  the  woman,  whom  your  fertile  imaginatiou 
has  converted  into  a  witch  or  fiend,  were  in  the  iron  chest- 
Anxious  to  satisfy  her  that  the  papers  were  safe,  I  went  to  look 
for  them.  You  were  making  a  sad  noise  in  your  sleep.  1  was 
half  inclined  to  waken  you,  but  thought  that  my  presence  in 
your  chamber  at  that  hour  of  night  would  only  increase  your 
uneasiness.  The  sound  of  my  steps  in  the  passage,  I  hare  do 
doubt,  waa  the  immediate  cause  of  your  dream." 


80 


THE     HONCTONS. 


This  was  a  masterly  stroke,  and  those  who  knew  Robert 
Moncton,  in  a  moment  would  recognize  the  man.  The  adroit- 
ness with  which  he  mingled  truih  with  falsehood,  almost  made 
me  doubt  the  evidence  of  my  senses,  and  to  fancy  that  the  events 
of  the  past  night  were  a  mental  delusion. 

"  Did  you  find  the  papers  you  wanted,  sir  ?" 

His  eye  flashed,  and  his  lip  curled.  "  What  business  is  that 
of  yours,  sir  ?  I  don't  allow  an  impertinent  boy  to  pry  into  my 
private  affairs " 

"  My  quesi    a  was  one  of  idle  curiosity." 

"  Even  as  such,  never  dare  to  repeat  it." 

I  was  struck  dumb,  and  concluded  my  breakfast  withont 
speaking  to  him  again.  When  the  tea  equipage  was  removed, 
1  rose  to  leave  the  room,  but  he  motioned  me  to  remain. 

His  anger  had  passed  away,  and  his  really  handsome  face 
wore  a  more  agreeable  expression  than  usual. 

"  Sit  down,  Geoffrey.  I  have  long  wished  to  converse  with 
you  upon  your  future  prospects.  What  progress  have  you  made 
iu  your  profession  1" 

Astonished  at  his  condescension,  I  told  him  candid'  how  I 
had  of  late  improved  ray  time,  and  studied  late  and  early  to 
acquire  a  comjmtent  knowledge  of  it  in  all  its  branches. 

He  was  so^rised,  and  appeared  agreeably  so. 

"  I  hado^o  idea  of  this,  Geoffrey.  Your  industry  has  won 
for  yoj/a  higher  position  than  an  office  drudge.  You  cannot, 
rer,  make  an  able  lawyer,  without  some  knowledge  of  the 
To  make  a  man  of  you  it  is  absolutely  necessary  for 
^you  to  go  more  into  society." 

"  You  forget,  sir,  that  I  have  no  means  to  indulge  such  a 
wish.  I  cannot  consent  to  go  into  company  under  existing 
circumstances." 

"  Oh,  we  can  manage  all  that,"  he  said,  tapping  me  on  my 
shouldtir.  "  Be  obedient  to  my  orders,  and  attend  to  my  inte- 
rest, and  you  shall  not  long  want  the  means  of  gratifying  youi 


i-:--^--. 


!  who  knew  Robert 
e  man.  The  adroit- 
Isehooil,  almost  made 
fancy  that  the  eveuta 

r?" 

^hat  business  is  that 

t  bov  to  pry  into  my 


y  breakfast  without 

[uipage  was  removed, 

me  to  remain. 

•eally  handsome  face 

il. 

led  to  converse  with 

agress  have  you  made 

him  candid'    how  I 
id  late  and  early  to 
its  branches, 
ly  so. 

ar  industry  has  won 
udge.  You  cannot, 
ne  knowledge  of  the 
)lutely  necessary  for 

s  to  indulge  such  a 
pany  under  existing 

,  tapping  me  on  my 
d  attend  to  my  iute- 
s  of  gratifying  your 


THK      M0NCT0N8 


81 


It  is  my  intention 


wishes.     Mr.  Harrison  has  left  the  ofiSce. 
that  you  supply  his  place." 

"  Harrison  gone  !"  I  cried  in  a  tone  of  vexation  and  regret; 
"  then  I  have  lost  my  best  friend." 

"  Harrison  was  a  clever,  gentlemanly  young  man,"  said  Mr. 
Moncton,  coldly;  "  but,  to  tell  you  the  plain  truth,  Geoffrey,  I 
did  not  like  the  close  intimacy  which  existed  between  you." 

"  Why,  it  is  to  him  that  I  am  indebted  for  all  the  know- 
ledge I  have  acquired.  His  society  was  the  only  pleasure  I 
had,  and  it  seems  hard  to  be  deprived  of  it,  without  any  fault 
on  his  side." 

"  Geoffrey,  it  is  of  no  consequence  to  me  what  your  opinion 
may  be  on  the  subject ;  I  am  master  of  my  own  actions,  and 
please  myself  as  to  whom  I  retain  or  employ.  Clear  up  that 
scowling  brow,  and  be  very  thankful  to.  obtain  a  handsome 
salary  for  services  which  I  can  command  without  remuneration." 

Tne  loss  of  my  friend,  my  only  friend,  was  a  dreadful  blow. 
I  was  too  much  overcome  to  thank  my  uncle  for  his  offer,  and 
left  the  room  with  the  tears  in  my  eyes. 

I  had  been  so  little  accustomed  to  think  for  myself,  that  I 
relied  upon  George  as  my  counsellor  in  all  matters  of  impor- 
tance. Besides,  I  had  an  idea  that  he  could  throw  some  light 
upon  the  mysterious  events  of  the  night,  and  I  was  anxious 
to  unburden  to  him  the  important  secret. 

Having  to  obtain  the  signature  of  a  gentleman  who  resided 
in  Fleet  street,  to  some  legal  documents,  and  knowing  that 
Harrison  lodged  in  the  same  street,  I  snatched  up  my  hat  and 
sallied  forth,  determined  to  consult  him  with  regard  to  the 
change  in  my  prospects,  as  I  felt  certain,  that  some  sinister 
motive  was  concealed  beneath  my  uncle's  unlooked-for  conde- 
scension. 

I  was  again  doomed  to  disappointment.  On  reaching  Harri* 
son's  lodgings,  I  learned  that  he  had  left  town  that  morning, 
for  a  visit  of  some  weeks  into  the  country,  but  to  what  part 


fcTMdaeft'iiK'KWifsa  «*taftEyKKRtft«eH»?VJ5«3r(J.si(Kj5j^.^>v, 


8S 


THF      M0NCT0N3. 


his  laiidludy  didn't  know.  At  parting,  ho  told  her  ahc  might 
rent  his  loonis  until  he  gave  her  notice  of  his  return. 

"  Gone  !  without  seeing  or  writing  one  line  to  inform  me  ol 
his  departure.  It  is  cruel.  Not  like  his  general  conduct,"  I 
muttered,  as  I  turned  from  the  door  :  "  If  he  can  deceive,  I  will 
never  trust  in  mortal  man  again." 

With  a  heavy  heart  I  sauntered  on  unconscious  of  the  path 
I  had  taken,  until  I  found  myself  entanglGcl  among  the  crowds 
that  thronged  Oxford  street. 

A  scream  I  echoed  by  several  voices  from  the  crowd,  "  that 
the  lady  would  be  crushed  to  death,"  startled  me  from  my 
unprofitable  musings,  and  following  the  direction  of  the  general 
gaze,  I  saw  that  a  young  female,  in  attempting  to  cross  tlie 
street,  had  just  fallen  between  the  horses  of  two  carriages 
advancing  in  opposite  directions. 

It  was  but  the  impulse  of  the  moment  to  dash  across  the 
intervening  space,  to  seize  the  horses  of  either  carriage  by  their 
bridles,  and  push  them  forcibly  back,  and,  by  so  doing,  hinder 
the  young  lady  from  being  trampled  to  death  beneath  their 
hoofs. 

She,  fortunately,  was  unconscious  of  her  danger,  and  could 
not  by  useless  screams  and  struggles,  frighten  the  horses,  and 
frustrate  my  endeavors  to  save  her. 

The  coachmen  belonging  to  the  vehicles,  succeeded  in  stop- 
ping the  horses,  and  I  bore  my  insensible  burden  through  the 
crowd  to  an  apothecary's  shop,  which  happened  to  be  near  at 
band. 

The  gentleman  in  attendance  hastened  to  my  assistance.  We 
placed  the  young  lady  in  a  chair,  and  he  told  me  to  remove  her 
bonnet,  while  he  applied  restoratives  to  her  wrists  and  temples. 

Fair  she  was,  and  exceedingly  beautiful.  Her  rich,  black, 
velvet  pelisse,  setting  off  to  great  advantage  the  dazzling 
whituness  of  her  skin,  and  the  rich  coloring  of  her  suuny 
brown  hair. 


WIS 


1 

rini 

the 
« 

or 

wil 

i 

tou 

she 

wh 


wh 


m^wswH^c 


THE      M0NCT0N8. 


83 


<  s. 

,  ho  told  her  she  might 
of  his  return. 
)ue  line  to  inform  me  ol 
his  general  conduct,"  I 
If  he  can  deceive,  I  will 

unconscious  of  the  path 
gleci  among  the  crowds 

from  the  crowd,  "that 
"  startled  me  from  my 
direction  of  the  general 
attempting  to  cross  the 
lorses  of  two  carriages 

lent  to  dash  across  the 

either  carriage  by  their 

ind,  by  so  doing,  hinder 

to  death  beneath  their 

r  her  danger,  and  could 
rrighten  the  horses,  and 

icles,  succeeded  in  stop- 
ble  burden  through  the 
lappened  to  be  near  at 

I  to  my  assistance.  We 
le  told  me  to  remove  her 
her  wrists  and  temples, 
itifiil.  Her  rich,  black, 
id  vantage  the  dazzling 
coloring  of   her  suuny 


My  heart  throbbed  audibly  beneath  the  lovely  head  that 
rested  so  placidly  above  it  ;  and  the  arm  that  supported  her 
graceful  form,  trembled  like  the  leaf  on  the  aspen.  The  glorions 
ideal  of  my  youthful  fancy  had  assumed  a  tangible  form,  had 
heeame  a  bright  reality  ;  and  as  I  looked  down  upon  that  calm, 
gentle  face,  love  took  possession  of  my  heart. 

The  sorrows  of  the  past — the  difficulties  of  my  present  posi- 
tion— my  recent  vexations,  all — all  were  forgotton.  A  new 
spirit  had  passed  into  me,  I  was  only  alive  to  the  delicious  rap- 
ture that  thrilled  through  me. 

First  passion  is  instantaneoas — electrical.  It  cannot  bo 
described,  and  can  only  be  communicated  through  the  same 
mysterious  medium. 

People  may  rave  as  they  like  about  the  absurdity  of  love  at 
first  sight  ;  but  the  young  and  sensitive  always  love  at  first 
sight,  and  the  love  of  after  years,  however  better,  and  more 
wisely  bestowed,  is  never  able  to  obliterate  from  the  heart,  the 
memory  of  those  sudden  and  vivid  impressions  made  upon  it  by 
the  first  electrical  shocks  of  animal  magnetism. 

How  eagerly  I  watched  the  unclosing  of  those  blue  eyes  ; 
yet,  how  timidly  I  shrunk  from  their  first  mild  rays. 

Blushing,  she  rose  from  niv  arms,  and  shaking  the  long,  sunny 
ringlets  from  her  face,  she  thanked  mo  with  gentle  dignity  for 
the  service  I  had  rendered. 

"  But  for  yonr  prompt  assistance,  I  must  have  lost  my  life, 
or  at  the  very  least,  been  seriously  injured.  My  poor  thanks 
will  never  convey  to  you  the  deep  gratitude  I  feel." 

She  gave  me  her  hand  with  a  charming  frankness,  and  I 
touched  the  white  slender  fingers  with  as  much  reverence  as  if 
she  had  been  a  saint. 

At  this  moment  we  were  joined  by  a  handsome  elderly  lady, 
who  ran  into  the  shop,  exclaiming  in  hurried  tones  : 

"  Where  is  she  ? — where  is  my  child  ?     Is  she  safe  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear  aunt,  thanks  to  this  young  gentleman's  timely  aid, 
who  risked  his  own  life  to  save  mine." 


84 


THE     MONCTONS. 


How  shall  we  thank  you — how  shall  wc  thank  fon,  sir?* 
cried  the  elderly  lady,  seizing  my  hand,  and  all  but  embracing 
me  in  an  extasy  of  gratitude.  "  You  have  rendered  me  a  great 
service— a  great  service  indeed.  Without  that  di-ir  girl  life 
would  be  a  blank  to  me.  My  Kate,  my  Kate  I"  she  cried,  clasp- 
ing the  young  lady  in  her  arms,  and  bursting  into  tears,  "  you 
don't  know  how  dreadfully  I  felt  when  I  saw  yoa  under  the 
hoofs  of  those  horses.  My  child  I  my  child  I — I  caa  hardly  yet 
believe  that  you  are  safe." 

The  charming  Kate,  tenderly  kissed  her  weeptng  relative, 
and  assured  her  that  she  could  realize  it  all.  That  she  must  not 
fret,  for  she  was  quite  herself  again.  Not  even  hu't  ;  only 
frightened  a  little. 

And  then  she  turned  her  lovely  face  to  me,  on  whicb  a  tear 
rested,  like  a  dew-drop  upon  the  heart  of  a  rose,  with  such  a 
sweet,  arch  smile,  as  she  said,  "  My  aunt  is  very  nervous,  and  is 
so  fond  of  me  that  her  fears  for  my  safety  have  quite  upse*.  her. 
The  sooner  we  get  her  home  the  better.  Will  you  be  so  kind, 
sir,  as  to  tell  me  if  a  carriage  is  at  the  door.  Ours  is  blue,  with 
white  horses." 

The  carriage  was  there.  How  I  wished  it  at  Jericho.  The 
old  lady  again  repeated  her  thanks  in  the  warmest  manner,  and 
I  assisted  her  and  her  charming  niece  into  the  equipage.  The 
young  lady  waved  her  hand  and  smiled,  the  powdered  flunkey 
closed  the  door,  and  they  drove  off,  leaving  me  spell-bound, 
rooted  to  the  door-sill  of  the  shop. 

"  Who  are  those  ladies  ?"  asked  the  apothecary,  looking  com- 
placently down  upon  the  sovereign  the  elder  lady  had  slipped 
into  his  hand. 

"  I  was  just  going  to  ask  that  question  of  you,"  said  I. 

"  How,  not  know  them — and  let  them  go  away  without  in- 
quii'ing  their  names  I  Arn't  you  a  simple  young  fellow  ?  If  it 
had  been  me,  now,  I  should  have  done  my  best  to  improve 
Buch  A  golden  opportunity.     Gratitude  you  know,  begets  let), 


T  H  K      M  0  N  C  T  O  N  II  , 


85 


0  thank  fon,  sir?" 
all  but  embracing 
eiidered  me  a  great 
that  dt-ir  girl  life 
el"  she  «ried,  clasp- 
ig  into  tears,  "  you 
saw  yoa  under  the 
— I  can  hardly  yet 

r  weeptiig  relative, 

That  she  must  not 

it  even  hu^t  ;  only 

ne,  on  whicb  a  tear 
rose,  with  such  a 

rery  nervous,  and  is 

ive  quite  upse*.  her. 

Vill  you  be  so  kind, 
Ours  is  blue,  with 

it  at  Jericho.  The 
irmest  manner,  and 
the  equipage.  The 
B  powdered  flunkey 
r>g  me  spell-bo'ind, 

ecary,  looking  pom- 
!r  lady  had  slipped 

you,"  said  I. 
)  away  without  in- 
sung  fellow  ?     If  it 
y  best  to  improve 
know,  begets  le''*^ 


and  I'll  be  sworn  that  the  ))retty  young  woman    has  a  good 
fortune,  by  the  anxiety  tiie  old  one  felt  in  her  behalf," 
[     I   felt  indignant  nt  the  apothecary  for  alluding  to  such  a 
'  vulgar  necessary  of  life  as  money.     I  was  iu  the  maddest  heroics 
of  love. 

"  What  do  I  care  aljout  her  property,"  said  I  disdainfully.* 
"  Such  a  beautiful,  elegant  creature,  is  a  fortune  in  herself." 

"  Yes— to  those  who  have  enough  of  their  own.  But  my 
clear  young  sir — beauty  won't  boil  the  pot." 

"And  who  would  wish  to  degrade  it  to  such  a  menial  occu- 
jiation." 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha,  young  man.  You  give  a  literal  meaning  to 
ihe  old  proverb.     You  must  be  in  love," 

To  joke  me  at  the  expense  of  the  beautiful  unknown  was 
sacrilege,  and  casting  upon  my  tormentor,  a  look  of  unmitigated 
contempt,  1  left  the  shop  with  a  lofty  step  and  an  air  of  offended 
clignity. 

As  I  passed  into  the  street,  I  fancied  that  the  term  "  ridicu- 
lous puppy  !"  was  hissed  after  me. 

I  strode  back  into  the  shop.  The  apothecary  was  waiting 
upon  a  new  customer. 

"  Was  that  insult  intended  for  me,"  I  demanded,  in  a  haugh- 
ty tone. 

"  What  did  I  say,  sir  ?" 

"  You  called  me  a  ridiculous  puppy." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  young  man.     I  am  not  in  the  habit  of    ' 
speaking  my  thoughts  aloud." 

I  deserved  this  cut  for  my  folly,  and  felt  keenly  that  I  had 
placed  myself  in  an  absurd  position.  Unable  to  check  the 
passion  that  was  boiling  in  my  veins,  I  levelled  a  blow  at  my 
antagonist,  but  unfortunately,  or  rather  fortunately  I  ought  to 
say,  missed  my  aim.  The  gentleman  who  was  leaning  on  the 
counter,  and  who  seemed  highly  amused  by  the  scene,  took  me 
by  the  arm  and  led  me  into  the  street.     "  Do  not  you  perceive 


86 


THK     M0NCT0N8, 


•'£"„ 
'&-' 


that  you  are  making  a  fool  of  yourself,  and  giving  the  apoiho- 
cary  an  advantage  over  you.  Go  home,  and  act  more  prudently 
for  the  time  to  come.  I  am  tlie  fatlier  of  several  lads  about 
your  age,  and  you  must  take  my  advice  in  good  part." 

Though  I  felt  hurt  and  mortified,  I  could  but  thank  my  new 
acquaintance  for  saving  me  from  committing  greater  absur- 
dities. 

"  My  uncle  is  right,"  I  said,  to  myself,  as  I  retraced  ray  steps 
to  Hatton  Garden.  "  I  am  a  babe,  in  my  knowledge  of  the 
world.  I  must  go  more  into  society,  or  I  shall  for  ever  be  get- 
tiug  into  such  ridiculous  scrapes." 

At  dinner  my  uncle  met  me  with  a  serious  face. 
"  What  kept  you  from  the  office,  Geoffrey,  this  morning." 
I,  willing  to  act  openly  with  him,  narrated  to  him  the  adven- 
ture I  had  met  witj. 

"  I  think  I  know  the  lady,"  he  said.  "  She  is  not  very  tall— is 
fair  complexioned,  with  blue  eyes  and  light  brown  hair.  Rather 
pretty  than  otherwise." 

"  Rather  pretty.     She  is  beautiful,  sir." 
"  Phew  I"  said  Mr.  Moncton.      "  We  see  witii  other  eyes. 
Young  men  are  always  blind.    The  girl  is  well  enough — and 
better  still,  she  is  very  rich.     Did  she  teil  you  her  name  ?" 
"  I  did  not  ask  her."  | 

"  Where  was  your  curiosity." 

"  I  wished  very  much  to  put  the  question,  for  I  was  anxious 
to  know  ;  but  really,  uncle,  I  had  not  the  face  to  do  it.  But 
you  can  tell  me." 

"  If  she  did  not  tell  you  herself,  I  am  not  going  to  betray 
her  secret.     What  use  would  the  knowledge  be  to  yQu  ?" 
"  It  would  be.pleasant  to  know  her  name." 
My  uncle  looked  hard  at  me  ;  and  something  like  a  sarcasMc 
smile  passbd  over  his  lips. 

"  Boy,  it  would  render  you  miserable." 
"  In  what  way." 


witli 


T  H  K     H  n  x  C  T  0  N  rt  . 


8t 


id  giring  the  apoiho- 
id  act  more  prudenti) 
)f  several  lads  about 
good  part." 
Id  but  thank  my  new 
itting  greater  absur- 

,s  I  retraced  ray  steps 
uiy  knowledge  of  the 
shall  for  ever  be  get- 

us  face. 

ey,  this  morning." 

ted  to  him  the  adven- 

}he  is  not  very  tall — is 
;  brown  hair.    Rather 


see  witii  other  eyes, 
is  well  enough — and 
you  her  name  ?" 


ion,  for  I  was  anxious 
le  face  to  do  it.     But 

I  not  going  to  betray 

Ige  be  to  ypu  ?" 

ne." 

ething  like  a  sarcastic 


"  By  leading  you  to  neglect  businegg,  and  by  filliug  your  head 
Willi  liopt'H  which  could  never  be  realized. " 

"  And,  why  not  ?"  1  demanded,  rather  fiercely. 

"  Young  ladies  in  our  days,  seldom  commit  matrimony  with 
penniless  clerks." 

This  was  said  with  a  strong  sneer. 

"  It  may  be  so-and  they  are  right  not  to  involva  themselves 
in  misery.  I  am  pennile.s8  at  present.  Bnt  that  is  no  reason 
that  I  am  always  to  remain  so.  I  am  young,  healthy,  industri- 
0U8,  with  a  mind  willing  and  able  to  work— why  should  I  not 
make  a  fortune  as  others  have  done.  As  my  grandfather  for 
instance,  did  before  me  ?"  ' 

"  This  is  all  true,"  he  said,  calmly,  "and  I  admire  your  spirit, 
Geoffrey  ;  bat  nephew"  (this  was  the  first  time  I  ever  remcm- 
l.er  his  calling  me  so),  "  there  are  other  difficulties  in  the  way  of 
your  making  a  high  and  wealthy  alliance,  of  which  you  have  no 
idea." 

I  know  not  why— but  a  sudden  tremor  seized  me  as  ho  said 
this.  But,  mastering  my  agitation,  I  begged  him  to  explain  his 
meaning. 

"  I  have  long  wished  to  do  so,"  he  said,  "  but  you  were  so 
violent  and  unreasonable,  that  I  thought  it  prudent  to  defer 
unpleasant  communications  until  you  were  older  and  better  able 
to  take  things  calmly.  "  You  have  thought  me  a  hard  task- 
master, Geoffrey-a  cruel  unfeeling  tyrant,  and  from  your 
earliest  childhood  have  defied  my  authority  and  resisted  my 
will.  Yet— you  know  not  half  the  debt  of  kindness  you  owe 
to  me." 

I  was  about  to  speak.  He  held  up  his  hand  for  me  to  main- 
tain  silence  ;  which  I  did  with  a  very  bad  grace  ;  and  he 
continued  in  the  same  cold  methodical  way— 

"  Children  are  naturally  averse  to  control,  and  are  unable  to 
discern  between  sternness  of  manner,  and  a  cold  unfeeling  hard- 
ness  of  heart ;  and  construe  into  insults  and  injuries  the 
necessary  restraint  imposed  upon  their  actions  for  their  good 


WKIf 


I 


I 

If 

h 


88 


T  II  K      M  <)  V  C  T  I)  \  S  , 


Yolii-s,  I  ftilmit,  was  ii  painful  sidmtion,  wliicli  yon  rendered  still 
more  unj)lcasiinl  by  your  olwtinate  and  resentful  disposition." 

"  But,  uncle  I"  I  exclaimed,  unable  longer  to  liolJ  my  tongue, 
"  you  know  I  was  treated  very  ill." 

«     "  Who  treated  you  so  ?     I  am  very  certain,  that  Rebecca 
mdulged  you,  as  she  never  did  one  of  her  own  children." 

"  My  dear  aunt  I  God  bless  her — she  was  the  only  creature 
in  the  house  that  treated  me  with  the  least  kindness.  The  very 
servants  were  instructed  to  slight  and  insult  me  by  your 
amiable  son,  and  his  servile  tutor." 

"He  was  a  fool,"  said  Mr.  Moncton,  re-filling  his  glass. 
"  As  to  Theophilus,  it  was  natural  for  him  to  dislike  the  hid 
who  had  robbed  him  of  his  mother's  affections,  and  who  left 
him  behind  in  his  lessons.  You  were  strong  enougli,  and  bold 
enough  to  take  your  own  part — and  if  I  mistake  not,  did  take  it. 
And  pray,  sir,  who  was  it,  that  freed  you  from  the  tyranny  of 
Mr.  Jones,  whan  he  found  that  the  complaints  you  brousiit 
against  him  were  just  ?" 

"  But  not  until  after  I  had  been  first  condemned,  and  brutally 
maltreated.     The  less  said  on  that  score,  uncle,  the  better." 

lie  laughed — his  low,  sarcastic,  sneering  laugh — but  did  not 
choo.se  to  be  angry. 

"  There  are  circumstances  connected  with  your  birth,  Geof- 
frey, that  evidently  were  the  cause  of  these  slights.  People 
will  not  pay  the  same  respect  to  a  natural  child,  which  they  do 
to  a  legitimate  one." 

"  Good  God  !"  I  exclaimed,  starting  from  my  chair. 


don't  mean 

bastard  ?" 

"  Such  is  the  fact." 
"  It  is  a  lie  ! — a  base 


to  insinuate.     You  dare  not  say,  that  I 


"You 
am  a 


lie  inventea  to  ruin  me  !"  I  cried, 


defiantly,  and  shaking  my  fist  in  his  face.     "  One  of  these  days 
yon  shall  be  forced  to  prove  it  such." 

"  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  do  so— if  you  will  only  give  me 
the  proofs." 


mmm 


T  H  fi     M  O  N  c  T  0  V  S 


89 


I'll  yon  rciulered  fltill 
iitful  dispoHition," 
r  to  liolJ  my  tongue, 

irtaiii,  that  Rebecca 
iwri  children." 
as  the  only  creature 
kindness.     The  very 
insult    me    by   your 

rc-filliiig  his  glass. 
m  to  dislike  the  lud 
ctioiis,  and  who  left 
iig  eiiougii,  and  bold 
Hake  not,  did  take  it. 
from  the  tyranny  of 
ipluints  you  brought 

denined,  and  brntally 
inele,  the  better," 
f  laugh — but  did  not 

ith  your  birth,  Geof- 

liese  slights.     Peopio 

child,  which  they  do 

om  ray  chair.     "You 
t  say,  that  I  am  a 


I  ruin  me  !"  I  cried, 
"  One  of  these  days 

jon  will  only  give  me 


"Pro./,r   I  excla:nied.   bitterly,   <•  they  are  in  your  owa 
poss(..s.sion-or  you  have  deslroyed  them  I" 

isZb:;;i;;::r""^'^^"'"^'^'"«^°-^«^-«^-tardf 

"  You  „„ver  act  without  a  motive."  [  cried  ;  "you  know  t^iat 

His    pretended    calmness   was    all   gone.      His    pale    face 
cnmsoned  with   rage.     Yet  it  was  wonderful  how  i  stanta^^I 
ously  he  mastered  lii.s  passion. 

"  Who  told  you  this  probable  story  ?    Who  put  such  absurd 
notions  into  your  head  ?"  »"«>"■« 

"One,  upon  whose  word  I  can  rely.     My  friend,  Mr.  Hur- 
iiBon* 

fal'f  T'**  f '  ^"  "'•'  ^'-  """'•^''"  *''*t  he  knows  of  our 
famdy  affa.rs,"  sneered  Mr.  Moncton.  "  He  has  proved  himself 
a  scoundrel  by  inventing  this  pretty  little  romance  to  get  up  a 
quarrel  between  us,  and  rob  you  of  the  only  real  friL  you 

of  these  di;"  '''''''''  ^"^^^^"  '^'  *•"«  '-^  ^«'-^-^.  one 

Jr  T  '*!'*  '  ^"^  ^'^""^'^  "^  ^"'^^'  ''"'^'  P^'-haps.  by  my 
foolish  rashness  marred  my  own  fortunes.  Inwardly  I  cursed 
my  imprudence,  and  loaded  myself  with  reproaches.  Then  the 
though  suggested  itself,  "Could  my  uncle  be  right-was  I 
indeea  illegitimate  ?"  «»«  i 

"  f  °;  "«'"  I  exclaimed,  uncotisciously  aloud;  "it  is  not  true- 
I  feel  that  it  is  false.  A  base  falsehood  got  up  to  rob  me  of  my 
good  name.  The  only  treasure  left  me  by  Providence  when  she 
deprived  me  of  my  parents.  Robert  Moncton,"  I  cried,  stand- 
ng  erect  before  him,  "  I  will  never  part  with  it.     I  will  mail 

my  lifM"'''"^  ^'^  ''"''  ^""  '"'^  ^'"'"  '""  '"  '^'  ^"'^  '"«'»«•»'  of 

Overcome  by  excitement  and  agitation,  I  sank  down  into  mr 

chair,  my  head  dropped  upon  the  table  and  I  sobbed  couvul- 


90 


THE    MONCTONS, 


"Geoffrey,"  said  ray  uncle,  in  a  low  voice,  in  wliich  an 
unusual  touch  of  kiuduess  mingled,  "calm  down  tins  funous 
passion.     Poor  lad,  I  pity  and  excuse  your  indignation;  Lotli 

are  natural,  in  your  case."  ..     ^  t      "  «;npli 

"The  pity  of  t'^e  wolf  for  the  lamb,"  muttered  I.       Such 

sympathy  is  worse  than  hate."  .,  .,    , 

"Well,  believe  me  the  author  of  all  your  wrongs,  if^it  pleases 
vou  Geoffrey  :  but  first  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say." 

I'was  too  much  exhausted  by  the  violence  of  my  emotions  to 
offer  the  least  opposition,  and  he  had  it  entirely  his  own  way- 
commencing  his  remarks  with  a  provoking  coolness  wh.ch  cut 

me  to  the  heart. 

"  When  you  lost  your  parents,  Geoffrey,  you  were  too  young 
to  have  formed  a  correct  estimate  of  their  characters." 

"I   have  a  very  indistinct  recollection  of   my  father,     i 

remember  my  mother  well." 

"You  may  imagine  that.  Your  father  had  a  fine,  manly 
face,  and  nature  had  endowed  him  with  those  useless  but  br.l- 
liant  qualities  of  mind,  which  the  world  calls  genius,  and  hke 
many  of  the  same  class,  he  acted  more  from  hnpulse  than  from 

^'"  Your  mother  was  a  beautiful  young  woman,  but  with  little 
descretion,  who  loved  unwisely  and  too  well.  Her  father  saw 
enou-h  of  my  brother  Edward's  character,  to  awaken  his  sus- 
picions  that  his  attentions  to  his  daughter  were  not  of  an 
honorable  nature,  and  he  forbade  him  the  house. 

"This  impolitic  =^tep  bronght  matters  to  a  crisis.  The  young 
people  eloped  together,  and  the  old  man  died  of  a  broken  hearty 
Your  mother  went  by  the  name  of  Moncton,  and  was  lutio- 
duced  to  his  sporting  friends  as  my  brother's  wife.  But  no 
evidence  exists  of  a  marriage  having  taken  place  ;  and  unt, 
such  evidence  can  be  produced,  the  world  will  look  upon  you  as 

lUegi^mate.^^  soon  be  of  age,  Geoffrey,  and  if  you  are  prepared 


voice,  in  wliich  an 
m  down  tiiis  furious 
our  indignation;  l)otli 

muttered  I.     "  Such 

ir  wrongs,  if  it  pleases 
lave  to  say." 
nee  of  my  emotions  to 
ntirely  his  own  way— 
ig  coolness  which  cut 

ly,  you  were  too  young 

•  characters." 

ion  of   my  father.     I 

ler  had  a  fine,  manly 
those  useless  but  bril- 
l  calls  geTiius,  and  like 
rom  impulse  than  from 

woman,  but  with  little 
well.  Her  father  saw 
ter,  to  awaken  his  sus- 
ghter  were  not  of  au 
le  house. 

to  a  crisis.  The  young 
died  of  a  broken  heart, 
[oncton,  and  was  iutro- 
jrother's  wife.  But  no 
taken  place  ;  and  until 
Id  will  look  upon  you  as 

and  ii  you  are  prepared 


THE    M0NCT0N3. 


91 


with  these  indispensable  documents,  I  will  assist,  to  the  best 
of  my  profussioaal  abilities,  in  helping  you  to  estublisli  your 
ilaiuis.  It  is  not  in  my  power  to  destroy  or  invalidiite  them. 
^Y\^y  then  these  base  suspicions — these  unmerited  reproaches 
— these  hurricanes  of  passion  ?  Wiiy  doubt  my  integrity  at  the 
very  moment  when  I  am  most  anxious  to  serve  you  ?" 

"  Because  in  no  instance  have  you  ever  proved  yourself  my 
friend,  and  I  cannot  help  doubting  your  sincerity  !" 

"  A  want  of  candor  is  certainly  not  among  your  failings," 
said  Mr.  Moncton,  with  a  slight  curl  of  his  proud  lip.  "  You 
have  studied  the  law  long  enough  to  know  the  impolicy  of  such 
conduct." 

"  I  judge  not  from  fair  words  but  deeds.  Sir,  the  change  in 
your  behavior  to  me  is  too  sudden  for  me  to  believe  it 
genuine." 

"  Strange,"  mused  Mr.  Moncton,  "  so  young  and  so  suspici- 
ous 1"  then  turning  to  me,  he  said,  without  the  least  appearance 
of  resentment  at  my  violence, 

"  Geoffrey,  I  know  your  faulty  temper,  and  forgive  you  for 
using  such  insulting  language.  The  communication  I  have  just 
made,  was  enough  to  irritate  your  sensitive  nature  and  mortify 
ycur  pride  ;  bat  it  is  not  reasonable  that  your  anger  should  be 
directed  against  me. 

"  I  considered  it  absolutely  necessary,  to  apprise  you  of  these 
important  facts,  and  conveyed  the  kno.vledge  of  them  to  you,  as 
gently  as  I  could,  just  to  show  you,  that  you  must  depend  upon 
your  own  exertions  to  advance  your  position  in  society." 

"  If  your  statement  be  true,  what  have  I  to  do  with  society  f 
What  position  could  I  obtain  in  a  world  which  already  regards 
me  as  an  outcast  ?" 

"  Not  here,  perhaps.  But  there  ara  other  countries,  where 
the  conventional  rules  that  govern  sociei,y  in  this,  are  regarded 
with  indiffeteiii't! — America,  for  instan<. 

He  6xed  his  keen  eye  upon  me.     A  n  ei«  ''trie  flash  passed  into 


92 


THE     UONCTONa. 


T 


my  mind.  I  saw  his  drift.  I  recollected  Harrison's  advice  that 
the  only  way  to  obtain  my  rights  and  baffle  my  uncle's  cunning, 
was  non-resistance.  I  formed  my  plans  in  a  moment,  and  deter- 
mined to  foil  his  schemes  by  appearing  to  countenance  them, 
until  I  could  arrive  at  the  truth,  and  fathom  his  designs — and 
I  answered  him  with  composure. 

"  Perhaps,  I  have  done  you  injustice  sir.  The  distracted 
state  of  my  mind  must  be  my  excuse.  1  will  try  and  submit 
with  patience  to  my  hard  fate." 

"  It  is  your  only  wise  course.  Hark  you,  Geoffrey  1  I  am  rich, 
trust  in  me,  and  the  world  shall  never  sneer  at  you  as  a  poor 
relation.  Tliose  whom  Robert  Moucton  takes  by  the  hand  may 
laugh  at  doubtful  birth  and  want  of  fortune." 

The  scoundrel !  how  I  longed  to  kuock  him  down,  but  that 
would  have  done  me  no  good,  so  I  mastered  my  indignation  and 
with 


CHAPTER    Xil. 

X    FORFEIT    II  y    INDKPENDBNOB. 

"Be  ye  therefore  wise  as  serpents,  and  harmless  as  doves'' 
was  the  advice  of  the  Divine  Law-giver,  when  he  sent  his  dis- 
ciples forth  on  their  heavenly  mission  to  reform  an  evil  world. 

Religion,  as  I  have  before  stated,  had  formed  no  part  in  my 
education.  I  had  read  the  sacred  volume  with  fear  and  tremb- 
ling, and  derived  no  consolation  from  its  mystic  pages. 

I  had  adopted  the  fatal  idea,  that  I  was  one  of  those  pre-con- 
demned  beings,  for  whom  the  blackness  of  darkness  was  reserved 
for  ever,  and  that  no  effort  on  my  part,  could  avert  the  terrible 

decree. 
This  shocking  and  blasphemous  belief  had  taken  such  deep 


hold 

perfi 

and 

siive 

(lest; 

suff* 

III 

bear 
tion 
I 
chan 
usua 
upoc 
aIon( 
was 


the  1 
hear 

T( 
ited 
conti 
wonc 
onwt 

M 
upon 
in  th 
fate, 
ye,  tl 

I< 
to  su 
from 
Didi 

H) 
hou8( 


T 


THE      M  0  N  0  T  0  V  8  . 


93 


[arrison's  advice  that 
5  my  uncle's  cunning, 
i  moment,  and  deter- 
0  countenance  tliem, 
om  liis  designs — and 

sir.    The  distracted 
.  will  try  and  submit 

,  Geoffrey  1  I  am  rich, 
leer  at  you  as  a  poor 
kes  by  the  band  may 

him  down,  but  that 
'A  my  indignatioa  and 


DEMOB. 

d  harmless  as  doves'* 
,  when  he  sent  his  dis- 
sform  an  evil  world, 
formed  no  part  in  my 
with  fear  and  tremb- 
lystic  pages. 
s  one  of  those  pre-con- 
darkness  was  reserved 
)uld  avert  the  terrible 

had  takeu  such  deep 


hold  of  my  mind,  that  I  looked  upon  all  religious  exercises  as 
perfectly  useless.  I  could  not  fancy  myself  one  of  the  elect, 
mid  so  went  from  that  extreme  to  the  other.  If  I  were  to  be 
saved,  I  should  be  saved.  If  a  vessel  of  wrath,  only  fitted  for 
destruction,  it  was  folly  to  struggle  against  fate,  and  I  never 
suffered  my  mind  to  dwell  upon  the  subject. 

In  the  multitude  of  sorrows  which  pressed  sorely  on  my  young 
heart,  I  more  than  ever  stood  in  need  of  the  advice  and  consola- 
tion which  the  Christian  religion  can  alone  bestow. 

I  left  the  presence  of  Robert  Moucton,  and  sought  my  own 
chamber.  The  lonely  garret  did  not  appear  so  repulsive  as 
usual.  No  one  would  disturb  its  gloomy  solitude,  or  intrude 
upon  my  grief.  There  I  had  free  liberty  to  weep— to  vent 
aloud,  if  I  pleased,  the  indignant  feelings  of  my  heart.  My  mind 
was  overwhelmed  with  bitter  and  resentful  thoughts  ;  every  evil 
passion  in  man's  fallen  nature  was  struggling  for  mastery,  and 
the  worst  agony  I  was  called  upon  to  endure,  was  the  hopeless, 
heart-crushing,  downward  tending  madness  of  despair. 

To  die — to  get  rid  of  self— the  dark  consciousness  of  unmer- 
ited contempt  and  social  degradation,  was  the  temptation  which 
continually  flitted  through  my  excited  brain.  I  have  often  since 
wondered  how  I  resisted  the  strong  impulse  that  lured  me 
onward  to  destruction. 

My  good  angel  prevailed.  By  mere  accident,  my  Bible  lay 
upon  the  iron  chest.  I  eagerly  seized  the  volume,  and  sought 
in  the  first  page  I  should  open,  an  omen  that  should  decide  my 
fate,  and  my  eye  glanced  upon  the  words  already  quoted—"  Be 
ye,  therefore,  wise  as  serpents,  and  harmless  as  doves." 

I  closed  the  book  and  sat  down,  and  tried  to  shape  the  words 
to  suit  my  present  state.  What  better  advice  could  I  follow— 
from  what  higher  authority  could  I  derive  sounder  counsel  ? 
Did  it  not  suit  completely  my  case  ? 

Harrison  had  disappeared.  I  was  alone  and  friendless  in  the 
house  of  the  oppressor.     Did  I  follow  the  suggestions  of  my  own 


94 


THE      MONCTONS, 


[it. 


heart,  I  should  either  destroy  myself,  or  quit  the  protection  of 
Mr.  Monctoii's  roof  for  ever. 

"  But  then,"  said  reason,  "  if  you  take  the  Brst  step,  yon  are 
gnilty  of  an  unpardonable  sin,  and  by  destroying  yourself,  fur- 
ther the  sinister  views  of  your  uncle.  If  the  second,  you  throw 
away  seven  years  of  hard  labor,  lose  your  indentures,  and  for 
ever  place  a  bar  to  your  future  advancement.  In  a  few  months 
you  will  be  of  age,  and  your  own  master.  Bear  these  evils 
patiently  a  little  longer-wait  and  watch-you  never  can  regain 
your  lost  name  and  inheritance  by  throwing  yourself  friendless 

upon  the  world." 

Determined  to  adopt,  and  strictly  to  adhere  to  this  line  of 
conduct,  and  leave  the  rest  to  Providence,  I  washed  the  traces 
of  tears  from  my  face,  and  returned  to  the  private  office. 

Here  I  found  Mr.  Moncton  engaged  with  papers  of  conse- 
quence. 

He  held  out  his  hand  as  I  took  my  seat  at  the  desk.     "  Are 

we  friends,  Geoffrey  ?" 

"  That  depends  upon  circumstances." 

"  How  hard  it  is  for  you  to  give  a  gracious  answer.  It  is 
your  own  fault  that  we  ever  were  otherwise." 

"  I  will  try  and  think  yon  my  friend  for  the  time  to  come." 

He  seemed  more  amused  than  surprised  at  this  concession, 
and  for  some  time  we  both  wrote  on  in  silence. 

A  tap  at  the  door,  and  one  of  the  clerks  handed  in  a  letter. 

Mr.  Moncton  examined  the  post-mark  and  eagerly  opened  it 
up.  While  reading,  his  countenance  underwent  one  of  those 
remarkable  changes  I  had  on  several  occasions  witnessed  of  late, 
and  which  seemed  so  foreign  to  his  nature. 

Suddenly,  crushing  the  letter  tightly  in  his  hand,  he  flung  it 
from  him  to  the  floor,  and  spurned  it  with  his  foot,  exclaiming 
as  he  did  so,  with  a  fiend-like  curl  of  the  lips  :  "  So  would  1 
serve  the  writer  were  he  here  !"  Then  turning  to  me,  and 
speaking  in  a  low,  confidential  tone,  he  said  : 


tune, 
ful  u 
forgi 
dean 
"] 
rath( 

Tl 

it  ■ 

You 

the  I 

It ' 

supp 
H 

pace 

bims 
tl 

as  n 
office 
able 
the  ( 

I 

<i 

and 
use 
cxte 

prej 

i< 

I  sh 
<i 

belli 
(< 

I 

The 


ait  the  protection  of 

;he  first  step,  yon  are 
itroying  yourself,  fur- 
he  second,  you  throw 
r  indentures,  and  for 
ut.  In  a  few  months 
r.  Bear  these  evils 
-you  never  can  regain 
ing  yourself  friendless 

dhere  to  this  line  of 
J,  I  washed  the  traces 
private  office, 
with  papers  of  conse- 

;  at  the  desk.     "  Are 


racioas  answer.     It  is 
se." 

•  the  time  to  come." 
ed  at  this  concession, 
ence. 

8  handed  in  a  letter, 
and  eagerly  opened  it 
jderwent  one  of  those 
isions  witnessed  of  late, 

3. 

in  his  hand,  he  flung  it 
ith  his  foot,  exclaiming 
;he  lips  :  "  So  would  1 
sn  turning  to  me,  and 
laid :      '** 


THE     MONCTONS. 


95 


"  The  writer  of  that  letter  is  unconsciously  making  your  for- 
tune, Geoffrey.  This  sou  of  mine  has  acted  in  a  base,  ungrate- 
ful manner  to  me — in  a  manner  which  I  can  never  forget  or 
forgive.  If  you  conduct  yourself  prudently,  yju  may  become 
dearer  to  me  than  this  wicked  young  man." 

"I  should  be  sorry  to  rise  on  my  cousin's  rain.  I  would 
rather  gain  your  respect  on  any  other  terms." 

This  remark  made  him  wince. 

"  Foolish  boy  1  How  blind  you  are  to  your  own  interest. 
You  belong  to  a  family  famous  for  playing  the  fool.  It  runs  in 
the  blood  of  the  Monctons." 

"  You  surely  are  an  exception,  sir,"  and  I  tried  in  vain  to 
suppress  a  sarcastic  smile. 

He  took  no  notice  of  this  speech,  but,  starting  from  his  seat, 
paced  the  room  for  some  minutes,  as  if  in  deep  communion  with 
himself. 

"Geoffrey,"  he  said  at  last,  "from  this  day  I  adopt  you 
as  my  son.  1  exempt  you  from  the  common  drudgeries  of  the 
office,  and  will  engage  masters  to  instruct  you  in  the  fashion- 
able accomplishments  which  are  deemed  necessary  to  complete 
the  education  of  a  gentleman." 

I  was  mute  with  astonishment. 

"  Trifling  as  these  things  may  appear  to  the  man  of  science 
and  the  candidate  for  literary  honors,  they  are  not  without  their 
use  to  the  professional  student.  The  world  judges  so  much  by 
externals,  that  nothing  is  to  be  despised  that  helps  to  flatter  its 
prejudices,  and  ensure  popularity, 

"  You  are  not  too  old  to  learn  dancing,  fencing  and  riding 
I  should  like  you  to  excel  in  athletic  sports  and  exercises.". 

"You  are  making  game  of  me,  uncle;"  for  I  could  not 
believe  him  in  earnest. 

"  By  the  living  God  !  Geoffrey,  I  mean  what  I  say." 
I  stood  before  hira,  gazing  into  his  face  like  one  in  a  dream. 
There  was  a  downright  earnestness  in  his  face  which  could  not 


96 


THE     UONCTONS. 


be  mistaken.  He  was  no  longer  acting  a  part,  but  realljr 
meant  what  he  said.  Nor  conld  I  doubt  but  that  letter  had 
wrouglit  this  sudden  change  in  my  favor.  Where,  now,  was  all 
my  high  ouled  resolutions;  human  nature  prevailed,  and  I 
yielded  to  the  temptation.  There'sat  Robert  Moncton,  gazing 
complacently  upon  me,  from  beneath  those  stern,  dark  brows, 
his  glittering  eyes  no  longer  freezing  me  with  their  icy  shine, 
but  regarding  me  with  a  calm,  appr  jving  smile.  No  longer  the 
evil  genius  of  my  childhood,  but  a  munificent  spirit  intent  to  do 
me  good. 

Ah,  I  was  young — very  young,  and  the  world,  in  my  narrow 
circle,  had  dealt  hardly  witii  me.  I  longed  for  freedom,  for 
emancipation  from  constant  toil.  This  must  plead  an  excuse 
for  my  criminal  weakness. 

Years  of  painful  experience,  in  the  ways  and  wiles  of  men, 
had  not  as  yet  perfected  the  painful  lesson  taught  me  in  after 
years.  Young,  ardent,  and  willing  to  believe  the  best  I  could 
of  my  species,  I  began  to  think  that  1  alone  had  been  to 
blame  ;  that  I  had  wronged  my  uncle,  and  thrust  upon  his 
shoulders  the  burden  of  injuries  which  I  had  received  from  hia 
son.  . 

The  evil  influence  of  that  son  had  been  removed,  and  he  was 
now  willing  to  be  my  friend  ;  and  I  determined  to  bury  the 
past  in  oblivion,  and  to  believe  him  really  and  truly  so. 

I  shook  him  warmly  by  the  hand,  and  entreated  his  forgive- 
ness for  the  hard  thoughts  I  had  entertained,  and  thanked  him 
sincerely  for  his  offers  of  service. 

The  light  faded  from  his  eye.  He  looked  gloomily,  almost 
sadly  into  my  face,  glowing,  as  it  must  have  been,  with  generous 
emotions,  marvelling,  doubtlessly,  at  my  credulity. 

Mr.  Moncton,  up  to  this  period,  had  resided  in  the  house 
which  contained  his  office;  the  basement  having  been  appro- 
priated entirely  for  that  purpose,  while  the  family  occupied  the 
floors  above.     My  uncle  seldom  received  visitors,  excepting  at 


uncle 

with 

Ju 

Mr.  : 

venoi 

was  I 

tondi 

were 

I 

don, 

chan 

ns  i 

garr 

olegi 

towi 

allt 

dere 

A 

I 

chai 

wim 

trea 

riag 

fair 

fant 

J 

to  1 

fine 

to  1 

wal 

] 

va{ 


THE     M0NCT0N8. 


91 


;  a  part,  but  realljr 
but  that  letter  had 
Where,  now,  was  all 
re  prevailed,  and  I 
bert  MoDcton,  gazing 
ic  stern,  dark  brows, 
with  their  icy  shiue, 
mile.  No  longer  the 
3nt  spirit  inteut  to  do 

world,  in  my  narrow 
ged  for  freedom,  for 
lust  plead  an  excuse 

ys  and  wiles  of  men, 
1  taught  me  in  after 
eve  the  best  I  could 
alone  had  been  to 
and  thrust  upon  his 
lad  received  from  hia 

removed,  and  he  was 
ermined  to  bury  the 
ind  truly  so. 
sntreated  his  forgive- 
ed,  and  thanked  him 

iked  gloomily,  almost 

e  been,  with  generous 

•edulity. 

resided  in  the  house 

t  having  been  appro- 

e  family  occupied  the 

visitors,  excepting  at 


tliose  times  when  Theophilua  returned  from  college.  To  these 
,,artie8,  I,  as  a  matter  of  course,  had  never  been  admitted.  My 
uncle's  evenings  were  spent  abroad,  but  I  was  unacquainted 
with  his  habits,  and  totally  ignorant  of  his  haunts.  ^ 

Judge  then,  of  my  surprise  and  satisfaction  when  informed  by 
Mr  Monciou,  that  he  had  purchased  a  handsome  house  in  Gros- 
venor  street,  and  that  we  were  to  remove  thither.  The  office 
was  still  to  be  retained  in  Hatton  Garden,  but  my  hours  of  at- 
tendance were  not  to  commence  before  ten  in  the  morning  ;  and 
were  to  terminate  at  four  in  the  afternoon. 

I  had  lived  the  larger  portion  of  my  life  in  great,  smoky  Lon- 
don and  had  never  visited  the  west  end  of  the  town.  The 
change  in  my  prospects  was  truly  delightful.  I  was  transported 
as  if  by  mnglc  from  my  low,  dingy,  ill-lighted,  ill-ventilated 
garret,  to  a  well-appointed  room  on  the  second  story  of  an 
elegantly  furnished  house  in  an  airy,  fashionable  part  of  the 
town  ;  the  apartment  provided  for  my  especial  benefit,  containing 
all  the  luxuries  and  comforts  which  modern  refinement  has  ren- 
dered indispensable. 

A  small,  but  well-selected  library  crowned  the  whole. 
I  did  little  else  the  first  day  my  uncle  introduced  me  this 
charming  room,  but  walk  to  and  fro  from  the  book-case  to  the 
windows.  Now  glancing  at  the  pages  of  some  long  coveted 
treasure  ;  now  watching  with  intense  interest  the  throng  of  car- 
riages passing  and  repassing  ;  hoping  to  catch  a  glance  of  the 
fair  face,  that  had  made  such  an  impressioa  on  my  youthful 

fancy. 

A  note  from  Mr.  Moncton,  kindly  worded  for  him,  conveyed 
to  me  the  pleasing  intelligence  that  the  handsome  pressfull  of 
fine  linen,  and  fashionably  cut  clothes,  was  meant  for  my  use  ; 
to  which  he  had  generously  added,  a  beautiful  dressing-ca.se,  gold 

watch  and  chain. 

I  should  have  been  perfectly  happy,  had  it  not  been  for  a 
vague,  unpleasant  sensation— a  certain  swelling  of  the  heart, 

5 


^'1 


.1- 


TUB     MONCTONB. 


which  sileutly  seemed  to  reproach  me  for  accepting  all  tiew 
faTors  from  a  person  whom  I  neither  loved  nor  respected. 
'  Couscieuce  whispered  that  it  was  fur  better  to  remain  poor 
and  independent,  than  compromise  my  integrity. 

Oh,  that  I  had  given  more  heed  to  that  voice  of  the  soul  1 
That  still,  small  voice,  that  never  lies— tliat  voice  that  no  one 
can  drown,  without  remorse  and  self-condemnation. 

Time  brought  with  it  the  punishment  I  deserved,  conviucing 
me  then,  and  for  ever,  that  no  one  can  act  against  his  own  con- 
viction of  right,  without  incurring  the  penalty  due  to  his  moral 
defalcation. 

I  dined  alone  with  Mr.  Moncton. 

He  asked  me  if  I  was  pleased  with  the  apartments  he  had 
selected  for  my  use.  I  was  warm  in  my  thanks,  and  he  appeared 
satisfied. 

After  the  cloth  was  drawn,  he  filled  a  bumper  of  wine,  and 
pushed  the  bottle  over  to  me, 

"  Here's  to  your  rising  to  the  head  of  the  profession,  Geoff- 
rey,   Fill  your  gluss,  my  boy." 

I  drank  part  of  the  wine,  and  set  the  glass  down  on  the  table. 
It  was  fine  old  Madeira.  I  had  not  been  used  to  drink  anything 
stronger  than  tea  and  coffee,  and  I  found  it  mounting  to  my 
bead. 

"  I  will  not  allow  that,  Geoffrey— yon  must  honor  my  toast." 

"  I  have  done  so,  uncle,  as  far  as  I  am  able.  I  have  had 
enough  wine." 

"  Nonsense,  boy  !     Don't  you  like  it  ?" 

"  I  hardly  know.     It  makes  me  feel  giddy  and  queer." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  that's  good  "—chuckling,  and  rubbing  his  handl. 

"  If  I  take  more  just  now,  I  shall  certainly  be  tipsy." 

"  What  then  ?" 

"  It  would  be  disgraceful.     In  your  presence,  too  " 

"  What — were  you  never  drunk  V 

"  Never,  in  my  life," 


THE     M  O  X  C  T  I)  N  a  . 


99 


'  accepting  all  tlew 
iior  respected, 
jtter  to  remain  poor 
grity. 

it  voice  of  the  soul  1 
liat  voice  that  no  one 
[nnation. 

deserved,  conviucing 
,  agoiimt  his  own  con- 
lalty  due  to  bin  moral 


e  apartments  be  had 
anks,  and  be  appeared 

hamper  of  wine,  and 

the  profession,  Geoflf- 

ass  down  on  the  table, 
used  to  drink  anything 
d  it  mounting  to  my 

must  honor  my  toast." 
im  able.    I  have  bad 


Idy  and  queer." 

md  rubbing  his  handl. 

linly  be  tipsy." 

isence,  too" 


"  How  old  are  you  ?" 

"  Twenty." 

"And  i.ever  intoxicated— well,  that's  a  good  joko.  Few 
young  men  of  your  age  could  say  that.  Would  you  not  like  to 
increase  your  knowledge,  and  be  as  wise  as  others  ?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  Ridiculous  prudery.  Come,  fill  your  gluss,  and  I  will  tell 
you  a  droll  anecdote  of  that  pretty  girl  you  fell  in  love  with  the 
other  day." 

The  glass  was  instantly  replenished,  and  I  was  wide  awake  in 

II  moment. 

"  That  young  lady  had  a  very  pretty  cousin— a  West  Indian 
—a  high-spirited,  dashing  girl,  who  had  lost  her  parents,  and 
was  on  a  visit  in  England  to  her  auut— with  whom  the  fair 
Catherine  resides.  The  girls,  among  other  things,  were  very 
curious  to  know  how  men  felt  when  they  were  drunk.  'It 
surely  must  be  a  very  agreeable  sensation,'  said  my  little  friend 
Kate,  '  or  they  would  not  so  often  give  way  to  it.' " 

" '  Suppose  we  try  ?' "  said  Miss  Madcap. 

"  '  Dear  me,  what  would  aunt  think  of  us  V  " 

"  '  We  won't  let  her  know  a  word  about  it.  She  goes  out  to- 
morrow, to  spend  a  few  days  in  the  country.  I  will  smuggle 
into  our  room  a  couple  of  bottles  of  champagne— we'll  lock  the 
door,  feign  indisposition,  and  get  glorious.' " 

"  And  did  they  do  it  ?" 

'*  To  be  sure  they  did.  '  We  drank  one  bottle  between  us,' 
said  my  little  friend,  '  and  I  never  was  so  ill  in  my  life.  I  was 
only  astonished  after  we  got  sober,  how  any  one  could  try  the 
experiment  a  second  time.'  Had  they  tried  it  a  second  time, 
Geoffrey,  all  the  dlfiBculty  would  have  been  removed." 

He  drank  off  several  glasses  in  succession,  and  for  fear  I 
should  be  thought  deficient  in  spirit ;  I  followed  bis  example. 
But  the  Rubicon  once  crossed,  to  my  surprise,  I  found  that  the 
wine  had  no  effect  upon  my  scLses  ;  only  serving  to  elevate  my 
spirits  a  little,  and  make  me  more  sociable  and  communicative. 


■i 


100 


Tni     MONCTONU. 


My  uncle'rt  stern  face  began  to  relax  from  its  usual  colli 
severity,  und  I  found  that  when  warmed  with  wine,  be  could  be 
A  most  intelligent  and  agreeable  companion.     After  eouvuraing 
ifor  some  time  on  indifferent  subjects,  he  said — 

"  You  think  you  remember  your  parents.  I  have  their  por- 
traits. Perhaps  you  would  like  to  keep  them  in  your  own 
possession." 

"  No  present  you  could  make  me,  would  be  so  valuable,"  I 
cried. 

"  Ko  heroics,"  he  said,  going  to  a  beautiful  inlaid  cabinet, 
"  I  detest  sentimental  people.  They  are  the  greatest  humbugs 
in  the  world." 

Returning  to  the  table,  he  placed  two  large  miniature  cases  in 
my  band,  I  eagerly  seized  them. 

"  Don't  look  at  them  now,"  be  cried,  "  or  we  shall  have  a 
scene — wait  until  you  are  alone.  I  found  them  among  my 
brother's  papers,  and  had  forgotten  all  about  them,  until  I 
chanced  to  stumble  over  them  in  the  bustle  of  removing." 

I  hid  away  the  precious  relics  in  my  bosom,  and  was  about  to 
quit  the  room. 

"  Sit  down,  Geoffrey,"  he  said,  with  a  grim  smile,  "  you  are 
too  sober  to  go  to  bed  yet." 

I  filled  the  glass  mechanically,  bat  it  remained  nntasted  before 
me. 

"  By  the  by,"  continued  my  uncle,  in  a  careless  tone,  wh:ch 
his  eagle  glance  contradicted,  "  what  has  become  of  you  friend 
Harrison  ?" 

"  I  wish  I  knew.     His  absence  is  a  great  loss  to  me." 

"  Who  and  what  is  this  Harrison.  You  were  bis  confidant, 
and,  doubtless,  know '(" 

"  Of  his  private  history,  nothing." 

My  uncle's  large  dark  eyes,  were  looking  into  my  sonl ;  I  felt 
that  he  doubted  by  word.  "  He  has,  I  believe,  been  unfortunate 
and  is  reduced  in  his  circumstances.  His  moral  character,  J 
kiww  to  be  excellent." 


"  V( 

Slier 

(lece 
II 

(iish( 
blatu 
main 

41 

tion, 

youn 

own 

most 

greal 

-1 

"Ic 

as  a 
II 

luteli 

tiie  s 


when 
once, 
now. 
iiate 
execr 
wise  ( 
H( 
pain  ; 
fore  1 

cried, 
apart 


T  H  K     M  O  S'  C  T  O  N  8  . 


101 


from  its  usnal   colli 
A'itli  wine,  be  could  Ixt 
oil.     After  eouvurviug 
lid- 
Its.     I  have  their  por- 
p  tlieiQ  in  your  own 

Lild  be  80  valuable,"  I 

autiful  inlaid  cabinet, 
the  greatest  humbugs 

irge  miniature  cases  in 

"  or  we  shall  have  a 
and  them  among   my 

about  them,  until  I 
le  of  removing." 
som,  and  was  about  to 

grim  smile,  "you  are 

mained  nntasted  before 

a  careless  tone,  wlr.eh 
I  become  of  you  friend 

at  loss  to  me." 

'on  were  his  confidant, 


)g  into  my  soni ;  I  felt 
lieve,  been  unfortunate 
[is  moral  character,  1 


"  And  doubtless  your  are  a  tyipital  judge,"  said  Mr.  Moncton. 
"  V'oung  nn-n  all  imagine  themselves  as  wise  as  Daniel  or 
Socrates.  I  think,  however,  friend  Geoffrey,  that  this  man 
(kceived  you." 

"  Impossible.  Harrison  is  incapable  of  committing  a  mean  or 
dishonorable  action.  Nor  docs  he  attempt  to  spare  himself  from 
blame  ;  but  frankly  confesses,  that  to  his  own  imprudence,  he  is 
mainly  indebted  for  tiis  misfortunes." 

"  Imprudence  is  a  respectable  term  for  intemperance,  dissipa- 
tion, and  vice  of  every  kind,"  sneered  my  uncle.  "  Your  moral 
young  gentleman  might  preach  against  sins  which  had  caused  hia 
own  ruin.  Believe  me,  Geoffrey,  the  crimes  and  passions  of 
most  men  are  alike,  with  only  this  difference,  that  some  have 
greater  art  of  concealing  them." 

'That  would  make  virtue  a  mere  name,"  said  I,  indignantly. 
"  I  cannot  believe  thai  ideal,  which  I  have  been  used  to  worship 
as  a  reality." 

"  All  bosh.    At  your  age,  men  cling  to  the  ideal,  and  reso- 
lutely close  their  eyes  to  the  true  and  rational.     I  was  guilty  of 
the  same  weakness  once." 
"  You,  uncle  I" 

"  Ay,  you  ore  astonished.  But  the  time  came,  and  too  soon, 
when  I  learned  to  wonder  at  my  own  credulity.  I  was  in  love 
once.  You  smile.  Yes,  with  that  old  witch,  as  you  call  her 
now.  She  was  as  beautiful  as  an  angel  then.  She  is  an  incar- 
nate devil  now  1  Love  has  turned  to  hate— admiration  to 
execration— and  I  curse  myself  for  ever  having  thought  her 
wise  or  good." 

He  flung  himself  into  a  chair  |ind  groaned  like  one  in  acute 
pain  ;  and  I,  thinking  he  wished  to  be  alone,  slipped  away  be- 
fore he  raised  his  head  from  between  his  clasped  hands. 

"  What  could  he  mean  by  asking  me  so  many  questions  ?"  I 
cried,  as  I  threw  myself  into  an  easy  chair  in  my  luxurious 
apartment.     "  Were  they  instigated  by  the  wine  he  bad  drank, 


1^1'  ^ 


lOi 


TH  K     MO  N  0  TO  N«. 


or  KUKgoBte^l  by  idle  curionily-or  were  my  annwern  u.ten I 

to   a.Xr  -ome   Hininter   ,.urp..se  (      God   know..      He   .   u 
.trange  inexplicable  .nun,  whose   word,  and  acl.on«  the  n,o. 
profound  lawyer  could  scarcely  falho.u,     I  Hunk  he  endeavor..d 
to  make  me  intoxicated  in  the  hope  of  extractiuK  «...««  .nfon.m- 
tlon  regardi..g  poor  George.     If  so,  he  has  missed  h.s  mark. 

I  drew  from  my  bo«om  the  portraits  he  had  given  me  pm- 
haps  as  a  bait  to  win  my  conBdence  •,  but  I  was  thanktu  to 
him  for  the  inestimable  gift,  whatever  the  motives  were  which 

led  to  its  bestowal. 

The  first  case  contained  the  miniature  of  my  father.  The 
gay,  careleHH,  happy  countenance,  full  of  spirit  and  intelligeuco, 
■eemed  to  smile  upon  his  unfortunate  son. 

I  raised  my  eyes  to  the  mirror-the  same  features  met  my 
Klance  :  but  ah,  how  different  the  expression  of  the  two  fac.s. 
Mine  was  saddened  and  paled  by  early  care,  by  close  conhn-- 
ment  to  a  dark  unhealthy  office  ;  at  twenty,  I  was  bnt  a  faded 
likeness  of  my  father. 

I  sighed  as  I  pressed  the  portrait  to  my  heart.     In  the  mark- 
ed difference  between  us  I  read  distinctly  the  history  of  two 

"eut  how  shall  I  describe  my  feelings  whilst  gazing  on  the 
picture  of  my  mother.  The  fast  falling  tears  for  a  long  while 
hid  the  fondly  remembered  features  from  my  sight-i)ut  tliey 
still  floated  before  the  eyes  of  my  soul  in  all  their  original  love- 

Yea-there  was  the  sweet  calm  face-the  large  soft  confiding 
blue  eycs-the  small  rosy  mouth  with  its  gentle  winning  smde, 
and  the  modest  truthful  expression  of  the  combined  features 
which  gave  such  a  charm  to  the  whole. 

Oh  my  mother-my  dear,  lost,  angel  mother-how  that  pic- 
ture recalled  the  far-off  happy  days  of  childhood,  when  I  s.it 
upon  your  knees,  and  saw  my  own  joyous  face  reflected  m  those 
dove-like  eyes  ;  When,  ending  some  nursery  rhyme  with  a  kiss, 


you 
bii(i( 

O 
'or  tl 

I 
diicc 
my  I 
pray 
pose 
me. 
whis 
niid 
fathc 
capa 
no — 
base 

I  I 
bed. 
feelir 
day  I 


Pf 
denti 
prom 

If 
to  hii 
reliai 


^P!^f 


my  anRwors  ititemlt'il 
jd  known.  He  is  o. 
uiul  uflioiis  the  iin)>l 
I  think  he  emleuvond 
traetin«  some  iiifornm- 
iiH  iniHsed  his  mark." 
he  had  given  me,  \m'- 
uut  I  was  tlionkful  to 
10  motives  were  which 

re  of  my  father.    Tlic 
spirit  and  intelligeaco, 

same  features  met  my 

ession  of  tiio  two  fncs. 

care,  by  close  coiifin*!- 

!nty,  I  was  but  a  fadeil 

jy  heart.  In  the  mark- 
•tly  the  history  of  two 

;8  whilst  gazing  on  the 
5  tears  for  a  long  while 
)m  my  sight— but  they 
n  all  their  original  love 

-the  large  soft  confiding 
its  gentle  winning  smile, 
f  the  combined  features 

I  mother— how  that  pic 
»f  childhood,  when  I  sut 
(US  face  reflected  in  those 
rsery  rhyme  with  a  kiss, 


THE    MONOTONI. 


103 


you  bowed  your  velvet  cheek  upon  my  clustering  curlu,  and 
bade  Uud  bless  and  keep  your  darling  boy. 

Oh  my  uu»ther  I— would  that  I  could  become  a  child  again 
or  thiit  1  could  go  to  you,  though  you  cannot  return  to  mo. 

I  leant  ray  head  upon  the  table  and  wept.  Those  tears  pro- 
duced a  salutary  cflect  upon  my  mind,  and  slipping  down  upou 
iny  knees,  I  poured  out  the  feelings  of  my  oppres-sed  hearf  ju 
prayer,  and  after  awhile  rose  from  the  ground  in  a  more  com- 
posed state  of  mind.  The  picture  still  lay  tliere  smiling  upon 
me.  "  Is  it  of  you,  dearest  mother,"  I  said,  "  that  bad  men  dare 
whisper  hard  things  ?  Who  could  look  at  that  pure  lovely  face 
and  believe  aught  against  your  honor  ?  I  could  despise  my 
father,  though  his  only  son,  could  I  for  an  instant  imagine  him 
capable  of  taking  advantage  of  such  youth  and  innocence.  But 
no — it  is  a  foul  slander  invented  by  a  villain  to  answer  some 
base  purpose — and  may  I  perish,  when  I  believe  it  true  I" 

I  locked  the  portraits  carefully  in  my  desk,  and  retired  to 
bed.  The  wine  I  had  drank  and  the  unusual  excitement  of  mj 
feelings  for  a  long  time  prevented  sleep,  and  it  was  the  dawn  of 
day  before  I  sauk  to  rest. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

A   VISIT   FROM   THB   ORKAT   MAN   OF  THR   FAMILY. 

Pbom  that  day,  I  became  Mr.  Moncton's  factotum,  his  confi- 
dential clerk,  and  priucipnl  agent.  In  all  matters  that  required 
prompt  and  skillful  management  he  invariably  employed  me. 

If  he  did  not  regard  me  with  affection — for  that  was  foreign 
to  his  nature — he  respected  my  abilities,  and  placed  the  greatest 
reliance  on  my  principles.     I  attended  him  in  most  of  his  profes- 


104 


THE    MONCTON*^ 


1''. 


sional  journeys,  and  was  present  in  every  court  in  whicli  he  had 
an  important  case.  He  was  an  adniirable  speaker,  and  his  cool, 
decided  manner  had  great  weight  with  both  judge  and  jury.  I 
no  sooner  appeared  with  him  iu  public  than  I  became  a  person 
of  considerable  consequence  among  his  friends  and  acquaintances, 
and  invitations  flowed  in  upon  me  from  all  quarters.  One  thing 
appeared  very  certain,  that  the  same  persons  who  had  despised 
the  shabbily-dressed  lawyer's  clerk,  no  longer  regarded  me  with 
cold  eyes  as  a  poor  relation,  but  were  among  the  first  to  over- 
whelm me  with  civilities  ;  and,  for  a  while,  I  was  intoxicated 
with  the  adulation  I  received  from  the  world  and  its  smooth- 
tongued votaries. 

Three  months  glided  rapidly  away,  and  every  day  added  to 
my  self-importance,  and  brought  with  it  fresh  opportunities  of 
enlarging  the  circle  of  ray  friends,  and  of  acquiring  a  competent 
knowledge  of  the  conventional  rules  of  society.  Though  natu- 
rally fond  of  company,  I  hated  dissipation,  and  those  low  vices 
which  young  men  of  common  minds  generally  designate  as 
pleasure,  in  the  pursuit  of  which  they  too  often  degrade  their 
mental  and  physical  powers.  Mr.  Moncton  laughed  at  what  he 
termed  my  affectation  of  moral  integrity,  and  tried  by  every  art 
to  seduce  me  to  join  in  amusements,  and  visit  scenes,  from  which 
my  mind  revolted  ;  and  his  own  example  served  to  strengthen  my 
disgust.  My  resistance  to  such  temptations  I  do  not  ascribe  to 
any  inherent  virtue  iu  me  ;  bat  1  have  often  observed  in  my 
subsequent  journey  through  life,  that  young  men,  "whose  know- 
ledge of  the  world  has  chiefly  been  confined  to  books,  and  who 
have  never  mingled  much  with  persons  of  their  own  age,  are 
guarded  from  low  vices  by  the  romantic  and  beautiful  ideal  of 
life,  which  they  formed  in  solitude.  The  coarse  reality  is  so 
shocking  and  degrading,  so  repugnant  to  taste  and  good  feeling, 
and  all  their  pre-conceived  notions  upon  the  subject,  that  they 
cannot  indulge  in  it  without  remorse  and  a  painful  sense  of 
degradation.     Tliia  was  so  completely  ray  casr,  that  I  often  fled 


V  wjtm^is^  ^fnfetjpy**,- 


■THE     HONCTONR. 


105 


y  court  in  which  he  had 
ble  spcalter,  and  his  cool, 
both  judge  and  jury.  I 
than  I  became  a  person 
riends  and  acquaintances, 
all  quarters.  One  thing 
ersons  who  had  despised 
longer  regarded  me  with 
among  the  first  to  over- 
while,  I  was  intoxicated 
le  world  and  its  smooth- 

and  every  day  added  to 
it  fresh  opportunities  of 
of  acquiring  a  competent 
'  society.  Though  nata- 
tion, and  those  low  vices 

generally  designate  as 
r  too  often  degrade  their 
icton  laaghed  at  what  he 
y,  and  tried  by  every  art 
d  visit  scenes,  from  which 
9  served  to  strengthen  my 
ations  I  do  not  ascribe  to 
ve  often  observed  in  my 
^oung  men,  ^vhose  know- 
>nfined  to  books,  and  who 
ns  of  their  own  age,  are 
ic  and  beautiful  ideal  of 

The  coarse  reality  is  so 
to  taste  and  good  feeling, 
on  the  subject,  that  they 
i  and  a  painful  sense  of 
ray  casp,  that  I  often  fled 


to  solitude  as  a  refuge  from  pleasures,  so-called,  that  I  could 
not  enjoy,  and  scenes  in  which  I  felt  shame  to  be  aa  actor. 
Perhaps  I  was  mainly  indebted  to  the  passion  I  had  conceived 
for  the  beautiful  Catherine,  which  acted  as  a  secret  talisman  in 
securing  me  from  the  contaminating  influences  to  which,  in  my 
new  position,  I  was  often  exposed.  In  the  hope  of  meeting 
again  the  fair  creature  whose  image  filled  my  soul,  I  had  fre- 
quented theatres,  operas,  and  public  bails,  but  to  no  purpose  ; 
on  this  head  I  was  still  doomed  to  suffer  the  most  provoking 
disappointment. 

One  evening  I  returned  late  from  the  office  in  Hatton  Gar- 
den ;  my  ancle  was  from  home,  and  a  great  press  of  business 
had  detained  me  beyond  the  usual  dinner  hour,  which  was  at 
six.  Tiie  porter  had  scarcely  admitted  ma  into  the  hall,  when 
one  of  the  footmen,  with  whom  I  was  a  great  favorite,  addressed 
me  with  an  air  of  mystery  which  I  thought  highly  amusing.  He 
seemed  so  anxious  to  impress  me  with  the  importance  of  the 
news  he  had  to  communicate. 

"Mr.  Geoffrey,  Sir  Alexander •Moncton,  my  master's  cousin, 
sir,  is  in  the  dining-room,  waiting  to  see  you  ;  and  the  dinner,  sir, 
is  waiting,  too.  I  told  him,  sir,  that  we  expected  Mr.  Monctoa 
home  this  evening,  and  he  bade  his  valet  bring  up  his  portman- 
teau from  the  hotel,  and  said  that  he  would  wait  here  till  measter 
returned." 

"  Thank  you,  Saunders,  for  your  information,"  I  cried,  hurry- 
ing  off  to  my  chamber  to  dress  for  dinner. 

I  felt  greatly  excited  at  the  prospect  of  the  approaching 
interview  with  the  great  man  of  the  family,  who  might  prove  a 
powerful  friend  to  his  friendless  relative. 

My  uncle  was  from  home,  which  would  afford  me  an  oppor- 
tunity of  speaking  for  myself.  I  was  anxious  to  make  a  favor- 
able  impression  on  Sir  Alexander,  and  took  an  unusual  degree  of 
pains  with  my  toilet,  but  the  more  trouble  I  gave  myself,  the 
worse  1  succeeded.    One  suit,  which  was  my  very  best,  I  fancied 

5* 


106 


THR     UONCTONS. 


too  fine,  and  that  it  made  me  look  vnlgar,  another  was  nnbecom- 
ing.  In  short,  no  bride  on  her  wedding  morning,  ever  felt  more 
diffident  of  the  appearance  she  would  make,  than  I  did  on  this 
important  occasion — which,  hope  whispered,  was  to  prove  tho 
great  epoch  in  my  life. 

The  extravagance  of  youthful  hope,  is  only  equalled  by  youth- 
ful vanity  ;  and  whilst  standing  before  the  polished  mirror,  con- 
templating my  own  person  with  the  desire  to  appear  to  the  best 
advantage,  I  forgot  the  stigma  attached  to  my  birth,  my  depen- 
dent situation,  and  the  very  proud  man  in  whose  presence  J 
was  about  to  appear. 

After  pondering  over  for  a  few  minutes,  the  manner  in  which 
I  should  address  him,  a  sudden  sense  of  the  absurdity  of  my 
conduct  struck  me  so  forcibly,  that  my  day-dreams  vanished  in 
a  hearty  fit  of  laughter. 

"  Hang  it  1"  I  exclaimed,  "  what  a  ridiculous  puppy  I  am 
going  to  make  of  myself,  with  all  this  afifectation  and  nonsense. 
Nature  is  the  best  guide  in  works  of  art,  why  should  not  our 
conversation  and  manners  be  governed  by  the  same  unerring 
rule  f  Simplicity  and  truth  possess  a  charm,  that  never  can 
belong  to  studied  airs  and  grimaces.  It  is  better  to  appear  as 
I  am,  with  all  my  imperfections,  than  affect  to  be  what  I  am 
not,  ev«u  if  by  so  doing,  I  could  ensure  the  good  opinion  of  this 
wealthy  titled  relation." 

With  these  wise  reflections,  I  regained  my  copiposnre,  and 
joined  Sir  Alexander  in  the  drawing-room— just  as  the  footman 
announced  that  dinner  was  on  the  table. 

Sir  Alexander  received  me,  and  my  apologies  for  detention  in 
the  office,  with  a  mighty  good  grace,  shook  me  warmly  by  the 
hand,  and  accompanied  me  into  the  dining-room,  with  the  air 
of  a  man  who  was  determined  not  to  be  cheated  out  of  his  din- 
ner, and  anxious  to  make  up  for  lost  time. 

I  did  the  honors  as  well  as  I  could ;  but  not  without  com- 
mittiug  sundry  awkward  blunders  ;  greatly  to  the  horror  of 


)  N  8. 


THE      UONOTONS. 


y^ar,  another  was  nnbecotn- 
ig  morning,  ever  felt  more 
1  make,  than  I  did  on  this 
ispered,  was  to  prove  tho 

is  only  equalled  by  youth- 
I  the  polished  mirror,  con- 
;sire  to  appear  to  the  best 
led  to  my  birth,  my  depen- 
man  in  whose  presence  J 

ntes,  the  manner  in  which 
5  of  the  absurdity  of  my 
iy  day-dreams  vanished  in 

a  ridiculous  puppy  I  am 
aflfectation  and  nonsense. 
'  art,  why  should  not  our 
ed  by  the  same  unerring 
a  charm,  that  never  can 
It  is  better  to  appear  as 
1  affect  to  be  what  I  am 
'e  the  good  opinion  of  this 

lined  my  copiposnre,  and 

oom — ^just  as  the  footman 

le. 

apologies  for  detention  in 
shook  me  warmly  by  the 

dining-room,  with  the  air 
be  cheated  out  of  his  din- 

ime. 

d ;  but  not  without  com- 

greatly  to  the  horror  of 


Saunders,  who  with  toe  and  elbow,  gave  me  varioL-s  silent  hints 
upon  the  subject,  as  he  glided  noiselessly  to  and  fro.  This 
only  increased  my  confusion,  but  fortunately,  my  wortliy  relative 
was  too  much  engrossed  with  his  dinner,  to  notice  the  trifling 
omissions,  which  poor  Saunders  considered  of  such  immense 
importance. 

I  was  greatly  relieved  when  the  cloth  was  removed  ;  and  the 
wine  and  glasses  were  placed  upon  the  table,  and  Sir  Alexander 
and  I  were  left  alone  to  improve  our  acquaintance. 

He  commenced  the  conversation  by  introducing  the  very  sub- 
ject uppermost  in  my  mind. 

■*  Did  I  mistake  you,  young  gentleman,  or  did  you  tell  me, 
that  you  were  a  son  of  the  late  Edward  I  oncton  ?" 
"  His  only  son." 

"  I  was  not  aware  of  his  marriage — still  less  that  he  left  a 
son.  It  is  strange,  that  I  should  have  been  ktftt  in  ignorance 
of  this  important  fact." 

This  was  said  half  mnsingly.  He  then  turned  to  me  with  a 
lively  air. 

"  Tour  father,  young  gentleman,  deeply  offended  me.  It  was 
a  foolish  affair.  But  it  effectually  severed  the  friendship  of  years. 
We  repent  of  these  things  when  it  is  too  late.  Had  he  been  less 
violent,  and  lees  obstinate,  a  reconciliation  might  have  been 
brought  about.  As  it  was— interested  parties  did  their  best  to 
widen  the  breach. 

"  Edward  and  I  were  school-fellows ;  and  though  little  har- 
mony existed  between  the  elder  branches  of  the  family,  we  loved 
like  brothers.  He  was  a  handsome,  generous,  high-spirited  fel- 
low, but  rash  and  extravagant.  While  at  school  he  was  always 
in  debt  and  difiBculty,  to  the  great  annoyance  of  his  money-loving 
father,  who  looked  upon  me,  as  the  aider  and  abettor  in  all  his 
scrapes.  We  continued  firm  friends  until  the  night  before  he 
left  college,  when  the  quaiTel,  which  I  do  not  mean  to  particular- 
ice,  took  place — from  which  period,  we  never  met,  and  all  cor- 


108 


THE     MONO  TON  9. 


Ro..^ 


responilence  ceased  between  us.  I  heard,  that  in  after  years, 
he  made  a  love  connexion  ;  but  I  never  learned  the  particulars 
from  any  one  but  your  uncle  Robert  ;  aud  he  did  not  inform  me, 
that  Edward  had  left  a  sou— nor  can  I  comprehend  his  motive 
for  concealing  the  fact." 

Sir  Alexander  paused  and  looked  earnestly  in  my  face.  I  felt 
the  blood  rush  to  ray  temples. 

"  I  do  not  doubt  your  veracity,  young  sir.  You  are  too  like 
the  man  I  loved  so  long  and  well,  for  me  to  question  your  origin. 
But  are  you  certain  that  you  are  Edward  Moncton's  legitimate 
son  ?" 

"  I  feel  no  doubt  upon  the  subject ;  my  heart  tells  me  thirt;  I 
am  his  lawful  representative  ;  and  I  .rust  that  heaven  will  one 
day  enable  me  to  substantiate  my  claims."     This  was  said  with 
a  vehemence  that  brought  the  tears  into  my  eyes. 
"Does  Robert  Moncton  admit  them  ?" 
"  No." 

"  On  what  grounds  V 

"  He  afifirms,  that  no  certificate  of  my  mother's  marriage  can 
be  found,  and  without  this  important  document,  the  law  will  not 
acknowledge  me  as  Edward  Moncton's  legitimate  son." 

"Or  Alexander  Moncton's  heir,"  replied  the  Baronet. 
"  But  I  do  not  judge  like  the  rest  of  the  woqld,  young  man, 
and  dare  to  think  and  act  for  myself.  This  uncle  of  yours 
is  a  cunning  man.  I  know  him  and  his  ways  of  old.  I  know 
how  he  fomented  the  quarrel  betyeen  hia  brother  and  me,  to 
gain  his  own  ends  ;  and  this  son  of  his — this  Theophilus,  is  a 
finished  scoundrel  1  It  is  mortifying  to  the  pride  of  an  English 
gentleman  to  acknowledge  such  men  as  his  successors." 

The  old  man  rose  from  his  seat,  and  paced  the  room  for  some 
time  in  silence.  He  was  so  much  occupied  with  his  own  reflec- 
tions, that  I  had  leisure  to  examine  his  countenance  minutely. 

A  strong  family  likeness  existed  between  him  and  my  father, 
and  uncle  Robert;  and  as  for  me— I  might  have  passed  for  his 


THE     MONCrONS. 


lOS 


pd,  that  ill  after  years, 
learned  the  particulars 
d  he  did  not  inform  lue, 
comprehend  his  motive 

estly  in  my  face.   I  felt 

J  sir.  You  are  too  like 
to  question  your  origin, 
i-d  MoQcton's  legitimate 

ny  heart  tells  me  that  I 
ist  that  heaven  will  one 
This  was  said  with 
t  my  eyes. 


Y  mother's  marriage  can 
;ament,  the  law  will  not 
legitimate  son." 

replied    the    Baronet. 

the  woqid,  young  man, 
If.  This  uncle  of  yours 
is  ways  of  old.     I  know 

his  brother  and  me,  to 
s — this  Theophilus,  is  a 
I  the  pride  of  an  English 
bis  successors." 
paced  the  room  for  some 
pied  with  his  own  reflec- 
countenance  minutely, 
ween  him  and  my  father, 
light  have  passed  for  his 


son.  He  had  the  same  high  forehead,  aqniline  nose,  chestnut 
curling  hair,  and  dark  piercing  eyes  ;  but  his  face  lacked  the 
careless,  frank,  good  nature  of  ray  father's,  and  was  totally  des- 
titute of  the  subtle,  stern  demeanor  of  my  uncle's.  The  expres- 
sion was  more  simple,  and  less  worldly  than  either.  It  was  a 
tlioughtful,  intellectual,  benovolent  physiognomy,  which  excited* 
feelings  of  confidence  and  affection  at  first  sight.  While  looking 
at  him,  I  thought  I  had  known  and  loved  him  for  years. 

His  tall  commanding  figure  was  slightly  bent  in  the  shouWers, 
and  his  hair  was  thickly  sprinkled  with  grey  ;  yet,  his  age  could 
scarcely  have  exceeded  fifty.  His  complexion,  unlike  my  hand- 
some uncle's,  was  very  pale,  and  an  early  accquaintance  with 
grief  might  be  traced  in  the  lines  that  furrowed  his  ample  while 
forehead. 

After  a  few  turns  through  the  room,  he  resumed  his  seat. 

"  Mr.  Geoffrey  Moncton,"  he  said,  grasping  me  warmly  by 
the  hand,  "I  wish  sincerely  that  you  could  prove  your  legiti- 
macy. There  is  something  about  you  that  pleases  and  interests 
me.  If  ever  yon  stand  in  need  of  assistance  you  may  rely  upon 
me  as  your  friend.  It  is  not  Robert  Moncton's  bare  assertion 
tliat  will  make  me  believe  you  a  bastard.  Tell  me  all  you  know 
about  yourself  ?" 

I  endeavored  to  speak,  but  I  was  so  completely  overwhelmed 
by  his  nnexpected  kindness,  that  I  could  find  no  words  to 
express  my  thanks,  or  comply  with  his  request. 

A  loud  knocking  at  the  door,  announced  the  arrival  of  Mr. 
Moncton. 

"  That  is  my  uncle's  knock,"  I  cried,  breaking  the  spell  that 
bound  me. 

"We  will  talk  over  this  matter  again,  Geoffrey.  If  we 
cannot  get  an  opportunity,  you  must  write,  and  tell  me  all  you 
know." 

Before  I  could  promise  anything  Mr.  Moncton  entwed  the 
room.     He  cast  a  hnrried,  scrutinizing  glance  at  me,  and  seemod 


no 


TUB     M0NCT0N8. 


1 1' 

'I, 


¥& 


fiurprised  and  annoyed  at  Bnding  lAe  on  snch  intimate  terms 
with  the  baronet,  to  whom  be  gave  a  most  cordial  and  flattering 
welcome. 

The  other  met  his  advances  with  cold  and  studied  politeness  ; 
it  was  evident  to  me  that  ><e,  too,  put  a  restraint  upon  his  feel- 
ings. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Sir  Alexander,  that  I  was  from  home  when  you 
arrived.     This  visit /rom  you  is  such  an  unexpected  favor." 

"  Your  absence,  Robert  Monctou,  gave  me  an  opportunity  of 
making  the  acquaintance  of  your  nephew,  whom  I  have  fouui  a 
very  agreeable  and  eutertaining  substitute,  as  well  as  a  near 
relation." 

Mr.  Monctou  regarded  me  with  a  haughty  and  contemptuous 
smile. 

"  I  am  happy  to  learn  that  your  time  was  so  agreeably  spent. 
By-the-by,  Geoffrey,"  turning  abruptly  to  me,  and  speaking  in  a 
haety,  authoritative  tone,  "  are  those  papers  transcribed  I  gave 
you  at  parting  ?  They  will  be  required  in  court  early  to- 
morrow." 

He  evidently  expected  a  negative. 

"  They  are  ready,  sir,  and  many  others,  that  have  been  placed 
in  my  hands  since.  We  have  been  hard  at  work  in  the  office  ail 
day." 

"  X  commend  your  diligence,"  he  said,  affecting  a  patronizing 
air  ;  "  I  am  sorry  to  take  you  from  such  pleasant  Company,  but 
business,  you  know,  cannot  be  neglected.  This  bundle  of  papers  " 
— and  he  took  a  packet  from  his  wallet  and  placed  in  my  hand — 
"  must  be  transcribed  to-night.  You  need  not  go  to  the  office. 
Step  into  the  study,  you  will  find  all  that  you  require  there." 

This  was  but  a  stratagem  to  get  rid  of  my  unwelcome  pres- 
ence.    I  bowed  to  Sir  Alexander,  and  reluctantly  withdrew. 

It  so  happened,  that  Mr.  Moncton's  study  opened  into  the 
dining-room,  and  without  meaning  to  do  so,  J  left  the  door  but 
partially  closed. 


NS. 


THE     JlONCTOJfS. 


Ill 


on  snch  intimate  terms 
lost  cordial  and  flattering 

d  and  studied  politeness  ; 
a  restraint  upon  his  feel- 

was  from  home  when  you 
1  unexpected  favor." 
ire  me  an  opportunity  of 
3W,  whom  I  have  fouui  a 
litute,  aa  well  as  a  near 

lughty  and  contemptuoa^ 

e  was  so  agreeably  spent. 

to  me,  and  speaking  in  a 

papers  transcribed  I  gave 

lired   in  court  early   to- 


srs,  that  have  been  placed 
d  at  work  in  the  office  all 

1,  affecting  a  patronizing 
:h  pleasant  Company,  but 
.  This  bundle  of  papers  " 
and  placed  in  my  hand — 
need  not  go  to  the  office, 
at  you  require  there." 
1  of  my  unwplcome  pres- 
relnctantly  withdrew, 
's  study  opened  into  the 
do  so,  J  left  the  door  but 


Sitting  down  to  the  table,  I  trimmed  the  large  slmded  lanjp 
tliivt  always  burnt  there,  and  began  mechanically  to  transcribe 
the  uninteresting  papers.  '  An  hour  passed  away.  The  gentle- 
men were  conversing  upon  the  current  news  of  the  day  over  their 
wine.  The  servant  brought  up  coffee,  and  I  ceased  to  give  any 
heed  to  what  was  passing  in  the  next  room. 

I  was  drawing  out  a  long  deed  of  settlement,  when  ray  atten- 
tion was  aroused  by  the  mention  of  my  own  name,  and  the  fol- 
lowing dialogue  caught  my  ear  : 

"  This  nephew  of  yours,  Robert  Moncton,  is  a  fine  lad.  Hovr 
is  it  that  I  never  heard  of  him  before  ?" 

"  I  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  introduce  him  to  your  notice, 
Sir  Alexander,  He  has  no  legal  clriim  upon  our  protection. 
He  is  a  natural  son  of  Edward's,  whom  I  educate  for  the  pro- 
fession out  of  charity." 

"  An  act  of  benevolence  hardly  to  be  expected  from  you," 
said  Sir  Alexander,  with  a  provoking  laugh.  "  I  suppose  you 
expect  to  get  the  interest  for  your  kindness  out  of  the  lad  ?" 

"  Why,  yes.  He  has  excellent  abilities,  and  might  do  much 
for  himself,  but  is  too  like  the  father,  but  with  this  difference — 
Edward  was  good-natured  and  careless  to  a  fault — this  boy  is 
haughty  and  petulant,  with  the  unmanageable  obstinacy  and 
self-will  of  old  Geoffrey.  He  is  not  grateful  for  the  many  obli- 
gations he  owes  to  me,  and  gives  me  frequent  cause  to  regret 
that  I  ever  adopted  him  into  my  family.'' 

*'  When  you  are  tired  of  him,"  said  Sir  Alexander,  carelessly, 
"  you  may  turn  him  over  to  me.  I  am  sure  I  could  make  some- 
thing of  him." 

"  You  are  not  in  earnest  ?"  in  a  tone  of  surprise. 
"  Never  more  so." 

A  long  silence  ensued.  My  hand  trembled  with  indignation. 
Was  this  Mr.  Moncton's  pretended  friendship  ?  I  tried  in  vain 
to  write.  "  It  is  useless,"  I  said  mentally.  "  The  deed  may  go 
to  the  devil,  and  Robert  Moncton  along  with  it,  for  what  I 


i 


112 


THK     MONO  TONS. 


care,"  and  I  flung  the  parchment  from  me.  "  That  man  is  an 
infamous  liar  1     I  will  tell  him  so  to  his  face." 

I  was  just  about  to  burst  into  the  room,  when  Sir  Alexander 
resumed  the  conversation. 

"  Who  was  this  lad's  mother  ?" 

"  A  young  person  of  the  name  of  Rivers  ;  the  only  daughter 
of  a  poor  curatp  in  Derbyshire.  You  know  my  brother's  dissi- 
pated habits.  He  enticed  the  girl  from  her  peaceful  home,  and 
grief  for  her  loss  brought  the  old  father  to  his  grave.  This  boy 
was  the  sole  fruit  of  the  connection.  The  parents  were  never 
married." 

"  Is  that  a  fact  ?" 

"  I  have  made  every  legal  inquiry  upon  the  subject ;  but,  no 
proofs  are  in  existence  of  such  an  union  between  the  parties." 

"  I  can  scarcely  believe  Edward  guilty  of  such  a  villainoua 

act  1" 

"  Extravagant  men  of  unsettled  principles  are  not  much 
troubled  with  qualms  of  conscience.  On  his  death-bed  Edward 
repented  of  this  act,  and  recommended  the  child  to  my  especial 
care  and  protection.  His  letter,  which  I  have  by  me,  was 
couched  in  such  moving  terms,  that  I  considered  myself  bound 
in  duty  to  d<5  what  I  could  for  the  boy,  as  he  was  not  answer 
able  for  the  fault  of  the  parents  I  took  him  home  the  day 
his  mother  was  buried,  and  he  has  been  an  inmate  of  my  bouse 
ever  since,"  » 

"  When  he  is  out  of  his  time,  what  do  you  intend  doing 
for  him  ?" 

"  I  have  not  yet  determined.  Perhaps,  associate  him  with 
myself  in  the  oflSce,  There  is,  however,  one  stumbling-block  in 
the  way — the  dislike  which  exists  between  him  and  Theophilus." 

"  Ay,  Geoffrey,  I  should  think,  would  prove  rather  a  formi- 
dable rival  to  your  son." 

"  Comparisons  are  odious.  Sir  Alexander  ;  I  should  be  sorry 
if  my  son  resembled  this  base-born  lad."  » 


NS. 


THF.     MONCTONS. 


113 


n  me.     "  That  man  is  an 

is  face." 

•oom,  when  Sir  Alexander 


livers  ;  the  only  daughter 
I  know  my  brother's  dissi- 
iva  her  peaceful  home,  and 
ar  to  bis  grave.  This  boy 
The  parents  were  never 


ipon  the  subject ;  but,  no 
tn  between  the  parties." 
guilty  of  such  a  villainous 

principles  are  not  much 
On  his  death-bed  Edward 
ed  the  child  io  my  especial 
hich  I  have  by  me,  was 
I  considered  myself  bound 
oy,  as  he  was  not  answer 
I  took  him  home  the  day 
len  an  inmate  of  my  house 

» 
rhat  do  yon  intend  doing 

3rhaps,  associate  him  with 
ver,  one  gtumbliug-block  in 
ween  him  and  Theophilus." 
ould  prove  rather  a  forml- 

xander  ;  I  should  be  sorry 
d."  » 


"  I  can  see  no  likeness  between  them,"  said  Sir  Alexander, 
drily,  "  not  even  a  family  one.  By-thebye,  what  has  become  of 
Theophilus  ?" 

"lie  is  travelling  on  the  continent:  His  last  letter  was 
dated  from  Rome.  He  has  beeu  a  great  source  of  trouble  and 
vexation  to  me,  and  is  constantly  getting  into  scrapes  among 
the  women,  which  you  must  allow,  Sir  Alexander,  is  a  family 
failing  of  the  Monctons." 

"  His  conduct  lately  has  been  such,"  said  the  baronet,  in  an 
angry  voice,  "  that  it  makes  me  blnsh  that  wo  bear  the  same 
name.  It  was  to  speak  to  you  on  this  painful  subject  that 
brought  me  to  London." 

"  I  know  the  circumstance  to  which  you  allude,"  said  Mr. 
Moncton,  in  a  humble  tone ;  "  nor  can  1  defend  him  ;  but,  we 
must  make  some  allowances  for  youth  and  indiscretion.  We 
were  young  men  ourselves  once.  Sir  Alexander." 

"  Thank  God  1  bad  as  I  might  be,  no  poor  girl  could  accuse 
me  of  being  the  cause  of  her  ruin,"  cried  the  baronet,  striking 
his  hand  emphatically  upon  the  table.  "  But  this  young 
scoundrel  I  v/hile  a  visitor  beneath  my  roof,  and  a  solicitor  for 
the  hand  of  my  daughter,  outraged  all  feelings  of  honor  and 
decency,  by  seducing  this  poor  girl,  on  our  own  estate,  at  our 
very  doors.  It  was  mean,  wicked,  dastardly— and  without  he 
marries  his  unhappy  victim,  he  shall  never  enter  my  doors 
again." 

"  Marry .'"  and  Mr.  Moncton  hissed  the  words  through  his 
clenched  teeth.  "Let  him  dare  to  marry  her,  and  the  solo 
inheritance  he  gets  from  me,  \yill  be  his  father's  curse  1" 

"  Till  he  does  this,  and,  by  so  doing,  wipes  oflf  the  infamous 
stain  he  has  brought  upon  our  house,  1  must  consider  both 
father  and  son  as  strangers  l" 

"  Please  yourself,  Sir  Alexander.  You  will  never  bully  me 
into  giving  my  consent  to  this  disgraceful  marriage,"  cried 
Moncton,  stamping  with  rage. 


114 


THE     II  <»  V  CTi>  N  a, 


There  was  another  long  pauxe.  I  heard  Sir  Alexatxier  tra« 
versiiiK  tlie  apartment  ivilli  liiisly  Mtritie.s.  At  leii)(tli.  Htopping 
Kudiiuiily  before  hU  excited  coinpHniou,  lie  Hiiiil  ;  "  Robert,  you 
uiny  be  right.  The  wicked  woman,  who  Hoid  her  gnindchild 
for  money,  was  once  in  your  service.  You  best  know  wliat 
relationship  exists  between  your  bon  and  his  beautiful  victim." 

A  hollow  laugh  burst  from  Mr.  Moncton's  lips. 

"  You  possess  a  lively  imagination.  Sir  Alexander.  I  did  love 
that  woman,  though  she  wad  old  enough  then  to  have  been  my 
mother.  It  was  a  boy's  rash,  blind  love  ;  but  1  was  too  proud 
to  muke  her  my  wife,  and  she  was  too  cunning  and  avaricious  to 
be  mine  on  any  other  terms.  Your  suspicions,  on  Ihal  head  at 
least,  are  erroneous." 

"  Be  that  as  it  may,"  said  Sir  Alexander,  "  Thoophilus  Monc- 
ton  shall  never  darken  my  doors  until  the  grave  cIohcs  over 
me." 

He  left  the  room  while  speaking.  A  few  minutes  later,  a 
carriage  dashed  from  the  door  at  a  rapid  rate,  and  1  felt  certain 
that  he  had  quitted  the  house.  My  uncle's  step  approached.  £ 
let  my  head  drop  upon  the  table  aud  feigned  sleep,  and  without 
attempting  to  waken  me,  he  withdrew. 

From  that  riight,  a  marked  alteration  took  place  In  his  man- 
ner towards  mc.  It  was  evident  that  the  commendations 
bestowed  upon  me  by  Sir  Alexander  bad  ruined  me  in  his  eyes, 
and  he  considered  me  in  the  light  of  a  formidable «rival.  He 
withdrew  his  contidence,  and  treated  me  with  the  most  pointed 
neglect.  But  he  could  not  well  banish  mc  from  his  table,  or  de- 
prive me  of  the  standing  be  had  given  me  among  his  guests, 
without  insulting  them,  by  having  introduced  to  their  notice  a 
person  unworthy  of  it.  On  this  heud  I  was  tolerably  secure,  as 
Mr.  Moucton  w.is  too  artful  a  man  to  criminate  himself.  In  a 
few  days  I  should  now  become  of  age,  when  the  term  of  my 
articles  would  expire  ;  I  should  then  be  my  own  master  ;  aud 
several  private  applications  had  been  made  to  me  by  a  lawyer 


.'.-.41'.  .1 


■f^^" 


"mF^ 


^m 


oard  Sir  Alexaixier  trii- 
H.  At  leii)(tli.  Hto|)piiig 
liu  Hiiid  ;  "  Riihcri,  you 
lio  HoUl  Iter  gnindctiilU 
You  best  know  wliat 
his  bcuuliful  viciira." 
ton'H  lips. 

Alexander.  I  did  love 
I  then  to  have  been  my 
!  ;  but  1  WU8  too  proud 
inning  and  avaricioua  to 
picious,  on  that  head  at 

der,  "  Thoophilus  Monc- 
1  the  grave  cloHes  over 

A  few  minutes  later,  a 
1  rate,  and  1  felt  certain 
le's  step  approaulied.  £ 
giied  sleep,  and  without 

took  place  in  his  man- 
mt  the  commendations 
d  ruined  me  in  his  eyes, 
,  formidable «rival.     He 

with  the  most  pointed 
me  from  his  table,  or  de- 

me  among  his  guests, 
juced  to  their  uotico  a 
was  tolerably  secure,  as 
riminate  himself.  lu  a 
,  when  the  term  of  my 
a  my  own  master  ;  and 
ade  to  me  by  a  lawyer 


TH  K    MONOTONI. 


116 


of  eminence,  to  accept  a  place  in  his  office,  with  promises  of  fur- 
tlier  advancement  ;  this  rendered  my  uncle's  conduct  u  matter 
of  indifference.  The  sudden  and  unexpected  return  of  Tlieophi- 
lus,  gave  a  very  different  aspect  to  my  affairs. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 


LOVE   AND   HATRED. 


At  first  Mr.  Moncton  refused  to  see  his  son  ;  but  on  the 
receipt  of  a  letter  from  Theophilus,  his  positive  orders  on  that 
head  were  not  only  reversed,  but  the  worthy  young  gentleman 
was  received  with  marked  attention  by  his  father. 

The  contents  of  that  letter  I  did  not  know  then,  but  got  a 
knowledge  of  them  in  ofter  years.  The  son  had  becom 
acquainted  with  some  villainoni  transactions  of  the  parent,  which 
he  threatened  to  expose  to  the  world,  if  any  rigorous  measures 
were  adopted  towards  himself  ;  these  revelations  were  of  such  a 
startling  nature,  that  no  alternative  remained  to  Mr.  Moncton 
but  to  submit,  which  he  did,  and  with  a  wonderful  good  grace. 

It  would  be  no  easy  matter  to  describe  the  surprise  and  indig- 
nation of  Theophilus  Moncton,  when  he  discovered  that  the 
despised  and  insulted  Geoffrey  had  become  a  person  of  some 
consequence  during  his  absence.  I  shall  never  forget  the  studied 
air  of  indifference,  the  chilling  coldness,  with  which  he  met  me 
on  his  return,  and  under  the  cover  of  which  he  endeavored  to 
conceal  his  chagrin. 

The  long-cherished  dislike  that  I  had  entertained  for  him,  had 
lost  much  of  its  bitter  character  during  a  separation  of  many 
months.     I  was  willing  to  believe  that  I  might  sometimes  have 


1 


116 


T  11  K     H  0  N  0  r  0  N  8 


been  the  aggressor,  and  that  time,  niU  u  more  intimate  know. 
iuilge  of  tlio  world,  iniglit  have  produced  a  I'uvoraMe  ehiingo  in 
ills  8urly  and  luoroso  disposition.  I  bad  still  to  Icnrn  tliat  the 
worit'  rarely  improves  the  heart,  but  only  teaches  both  sexes 
MK>r»=  adroitly  to  conceal  its  imperfections.  I  could  perceive 
in.  ilicration  in  Theophihis  which  gave  the  least  promise  of 
iiiv-atul  mprovement.  After  a  few  minutes  spent  in  his  com- 
tmiir,  1  onnd  him  more  arrogant  and  conceited  than  when  ho 
bade  adieu  to  his  native  shores.  Tlie  alTectation  of  imitating 
foreign  manners,  and  interlarding  his  conversation  with  French 
ond  Italian,  rendered  him  less  attractive  in  his  assumed,  than  he 
had  been  in  his  natural  character. 

i  listened  for  the  first  week  to  his  long,  egotistical  harangues, 
with  tolerable  patience,  hoping  that  the  theme  of  self  would 
soon  be  exhausted,  and  the  Frenchified  dandy  condesceiid  to 
remember  that  he  was  an  Englishman  ;  but  finding  him  becom- 
ing more  arrogant  and  assuming  by  listening  to  his  nonsense,  I 
turned  from  him  with  feelings  of  aversion,  which  I  could  but  ill 
conceal.  It  must  have  been  apparent,  even  to  himself,  that  I 
considered  his  company  a  bore. 

The  sympathy  that  exists  between  kindred  minds,  all  have 
experienced  at  some  period  r'  their  lives  ;  but  the  mysterious 
chords  of  feeling  which  uuitR  hearts  formed  by  nature,  to  under- 
stand and  appreciate  each  other,  are  not  more  electrical  in  their 
operation  than  those  which  have  their  origin  in  the  darker  pas- 
sions of  the  human  breast. 

How  repugnant  to  a  sensitive  mind,  is  a  forced  association 
with  persons  in  whom  we  can  find  no  affinity  ;  and  whese  senti- 
ments and  pursuits  are  at  utter  variance  with  our  own. 

1  was  acutely  alive  to  these  impressions,  whenever  I  encoun- 
tered  the  sidelong,  watchful  glance  of  my  cousin.  There  was 
nothing  etruigJitforward  in  his  soul  ;  he  never  looked  friend  or 
enemy  honestly  in  the  face.  We  mutually  understood  each 
other.     Though  he  scrupulously  avoided  addressing  his  conver- 


u  more  intimate  knoir< 
i  a  I'uvorablo  clmtigo  in 
1  still  to  loam  that  the 
)nly  teoches  both  sexes 
ions.  I  could  perceive 
ve  the  least  promise  of 
nutes  speut  iu  his  corn- 
conceited  than  when  bo 

aifectatiou  of  imitating 
)nversation  with  French 
I  in  bis  assumed,  than  he 

g,  egotistical  harangues, 
he  theme  of  self  would 
d  dandy  condescond  to 
but  finding  him  becom- 
;euing  to  his  nonsense,  I 
11,  which  I  could  bat  ill 
even  to  himself,  that  I 

kindred  minds,  all  have 
es  ;  but  the  mysterious 
ned  by  nature,  to  undcr- 
t  more  electrical  in  their 
origin  in  the  darker  pas- 
is  a  forced  association 
Inity  ;  and  whese  senti- 
!  with  our  own. 
ons,  whenever  I  encoun- 
my  cousin.  There  was 
never  looked  friend  or 
tually  understood  each 
1  addressing  bis  conver- 


•iHJWWjW;''' 


T  M  K     M  0  N  C  T  0  N  a , 


n% 


fliition  to  mc,  yet,  it  was  chiefly  intended  for  my  edification  ; 
1111(1  was  ropluto  with  spiluful  mid  saliricul  invectives. 

I  detent  this  covort  manner  of  attack  ;  it  is  mean  and  uufuir 
in  tiio  highest  d('j":rte,  as  it  deprives  the  person  nttackcd  f'runi 
taking  his  own  part,  and  boldly  defending  hini.self.  Tlieophilus 
was  a  perfect  adept  at  this  dastardly  species  of  warfare. 

I  tried  to  treat  his  conduct  with  silent  contempt  ;  but  bis 
provoking  remarks  galled  me  exceedingly  ;  and  often,  when  I 
appeared  unconscious  of  thoir  Iwing  levelled  against  me,  and 
earnestly  engaged  in  the  perusal  of  some  dull  law-book,  I  was 
listening  to  every  word  he  uttered,  and  quivering  with  indigna- 
tion in  every  limb.  Tlieophilus  enjoyed  my  discomfiture,  and  I 
found  his  powers  of  tormenting  greater  than  I  had  at  first 
imagined. 

The  second  day  after  bis  arrival,  he  sent  a  message  np  to  my 
room,  to  inform  me  that  he  required  that  apartment  for  his 
vulet,  and  I  could  remove  to  a  chamber  in  the  next  story. 

I  returned  for  answer,  "  Tiiat  I  should  not  quit  the  occupa- 
tion of  the  room  that  had  been  allotted  to  my  use  by  his  father, 
until  1  received  positive  orders  from  him  to  that  effect.  But  I 
should  only  require  it  a  few  days  longer,  and  then,  he  could  do 
as  he  pleased." 

This  insolent  demand  was  not  secorUed  by  Mr.  Moncton,  and 
1  took  no  further  notice  of  it. 

That  my  undo  had  a  game  of  his  own  to  play,  when  be  took 
me  from  the  obscurity  of  the  office  and  introduced  mo  into 
society,  I  was  now  more  than  ever  convinced.  Whilst  in  the 
presence  of  his  son  he  treated  me  with  marked  attention  and 
respect,  which  rendered  my  situation  far  more  trying  and  irk- 
fiome,  as  I  mistrusted  the  designs  of  the  one  and  detested  the 
other. 

I  felt  that  Mr.  Moncton  acted  thus,  on  purpose  to  aninoy 
Tlieophilus,  and  make  him  feel  the  weight  of  the  resentmtmt, 
which,  for  good  reasons,  he  dared  not  openly  express;   while  he 


'i 


118 


THE     M0NCT0N8. 


praised  my  talents  and  application  to  business,  on  purpose  to 
rouse  the  envy  and  hatred  of  ray  cousin. 

One  afternoon,  as  we  were  sitting  over  the  dessert,  Mr. 
Moncton,  as  usual,  addressed  his  conversation  exclusively  to 
me,  which  irritated  Theophilus  to  such  a  degree,  that  he  tunned 
suddenly  to  his  father,  and  exclaimed  with  much  violence  : 

"  You  seem,  sir,  to  forget  you  have  a  son  ?" 

"  Yes,  when  that  son  forgot  what  was  due  to  himself,  and  tO 
his  father's  house." 

"  You  liave  to  thank  yourself  for  <Aa<,"  was  the  insolent  reply. 
"  I  have  trod  too  closely  in  your  own  footsteps,  and  followed  too 
strictly  the  honest  principles  of  my  father."  He  laughed  bittei  ly. 
"  It  seems  strange,  that  you  should  be  surprised,  that  such  an 
example  should  have  produced  corresponding  effects  upon  the 
mind  and  character  of  yonr  sou." 

Shocked  at  this  horrible  speech,  for  in  spite  of  its  awful  truth, 
it  seemed  terrible  from  the  mouth  of  a  son,  I  looked  from 
Theophilus  to  his  father,  expecting  to  see  the  dark  eye  of  the 
latter,  alive  with  the  light  of  passion.  But  no— there  he  sat, 
mute  as  a  marble  statue  ;  it  was  frightful  to  contemplate  the 
glossy  stare  of  his  glittering  eye,  the  rigid  immobility  of  his 
countenance. 

"  God  of  Heaven  !"  I  mentally  exclaimed,  "  can  he  l^e  insulted 
in  this  manner  by  his  only  son,  and  remain  thus  calm  ?"  But 
calm  he  was,  without  even  attempting  a  reply,  whilst  the  inso- 
lent wretch  continued. 

"  By  heaven  I  if  you  think  that  advancing  that  puppy  into 
my  place  will  bend  me  to  yonr  purpose,  you  grosyly  deceive 
yourself.  I  pity  the  stupid  puppet  who  can  tlms  sneak  to  his 
bitterest  enemy,  to  obtain  a  position  he  could  never  rise  to  by 
his  own  merit.  Silly  boy  I— I  laugh  at  his  folly— our  shallow 
policy,  and  his  credulity." 
The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  his  mouth,  when  I  sprang 


^■f^SC^'&iV  '.»*(©■»«■■' 


THE     M0NCT0^f8. 


119 


NS  . 

0  business,  on  purpose  to 
sin. 

iig  over   the  dessert,    Mr. 
onversation   exclusively  to 
jh  a  degree,  that  he  tutned 
with  much  violence  : 
!  a  son  ?" 
was  due  to  himself,  and  tO 

ia<,"  was  the  insolent  reply, 
footsteps,  and  followed  too 
der."   He  laughed  bitteny. 

1  be  surprised,  that  such  an 
espoudiug  effects  upon  the 

•  in  spite  of  its  awful  truth, 
of  a  son,  I  looked  from 
,0  see  the  dark  eye  of  the 
)n.  But  no — there  he  sat, 
rightful  to  contemplate  the 
he  rigid  immobility  of  his 

laimed,  "  can  he  l^e  insulted 

remain  thus  calm  ?"     But 

ng  a  reply,  whilst  the  inso- 

advancing  that  puppy  Into 
irpose,  you  grosyjy  deceive 
who  can  tlms  sneak  to  his 
n  he  could  never  rise  to  by 
1  at  his  folly — our  shallow 

his  mouth,  when  I  sprang 


from  my  chair,  and  with  a  well-directed  blow,  levelled  him  at 
my  feuL 

"  Tlmnk  you,  Geoffrey  1"  exclaimed  Mr.  Monctou,  raising  the 
orest  fallen  hero  from  the  ground.  "  You  have  answered  both 
for  yourself  and  me." 

"I  have  beeu  too  rasli,"  I  said,  seeing  the  blood  stream 
copiously  from  my  cousin's  nose  ;  "  but  he  exasperated  rao 
beyond  endurance." 

'•  lie  provoked  it  himself,"  returned  Mr.  Moncton.  "  I  uever 
blame  any  person  when  insulted,  for  taking  liis  own  part.  You 
need  be  under  no  sipprehensiou  of  a  hostile  encounter — Theophi- 
lus  is  a  cowardly  dog,  he  can  bark  and  snarl,  but  dares  not 
light.  Go  to  your  room,  Geoffrey,  you  will  be  better  friends 
after  this." 

He  said  this  in  a  tone  of  such  bitter  irony,  that  I  hardly 
knew  whether  he  was  pleased  with  what  1  had  done  or  offended, 
but  who  could  fathom  the  mind  of  such  a  man  ?  I  instantly 
complied  with  his  re(iuest,  and  felt,  however  mortifying  to  my 
pride,  that  Theophilus  Monctou  had  uttered  the  truth. 

"In  another  week,"  I  cried,  as  I  strode  through  the  apart- 
ment—"yes,  in  less  than  a  week,  I  shall  obtain  ray  majority — I 
shall  be  free,  and  cheu  farewell  to  this  accursed  house  of 
bondage  for  ever  !" 

Theophilus  had  not  been  home  many  days,  before  I  perceived 
a  decided  alteration  in  the  once  friendly  greetings  I  had  been 
accustomed  to  receive  from  Mr.  Moncton's  guests.  I  was  no 
longer  invited  to  their  parties,  or  treated  with  those  flattering 
marks  of  attention  which  had  been  .so  gratifying  to  my. vanity, 
and  given  me  such  an  exalte?';  idea  of  my  own  consequence. 

At  first,  I  was  at  a  Icsf,  to  imagine  what  had  produced 
this  sudden  change.  One  simple  sentence  at  length  solved  all 
these  unpleasant  queries,  and  pressed  the  unwelcome  truth  hom^ 
to  my  heart.  Robert  Moncton  had  been  reiioncilcd  to  his  sob, 
and  I  was  once  more  regarded  as  only  a  foor  relation. 


12U 


THE     M0NCT0N3. 


(      ! 


If 


The  day  I  made  this  important  discovery,  I  had  been  dcialtiod 
at  the  office  Ion*.-;  after  our  usual  diimer  hour,  and  meeting  with 
a  friend  on  my  way  home,  I  sauntered  with  him  several  times  up 
and  down  Regent  street,  before  I  returned  to  my  uncle's  house. 
I  was  not  aware  that  my  ancle  expected  coi  ipany  that  day, 
until  informed  by  Saunders  in  the  hall,  that  a  large  party  were 
assembled  in  the  dining-room. 

I  wft"  "  little  provoked  at  not  receiving  any  intimation  of  the 
event,  and  in  being  too  late  for  appearing  at  dinner,  the  third 
course  having  been  placed  or.  the  table  ;  but  I  hurried  away  to 
my  own  apartment  to  change  my  dress,  and  join  the  ladies  in 
the  drawing-room. 

This  important  duty  was  scarcely  effected,  before  Saunders 
entered  with  a  tray  covered  with  dainties,  wliich  he  had  catered 
for  my  benefit. 

"  I  was  determined,  Mr.  Geoffrey,  that  they  should  not  have 
all  the  good  things  to  themselves.  Here  is  an  exccll«int  ent  of 
srlmon  and  lobster-sauce  ;  the  plump  breast  c^  a  partridge,  and 
a  slice  of  delicious  ham — besides,  the  sunkets.  If  you  cannot 
make  a  good  dinner  off  these,  why,  I  says,  thet  you  deserves  to 
be  hungry." 

And  throwing  a  snowy  napkin  over  a  sma'.l  table  near  the 
fire,  he  deposited  the  tray  and  its  tempting  conten\s  thereon, 
placed  uiy  chair,  and  stood  behind  it  with  beaming  eyes,  his 
jolly,  rosy  face  radiant  with  good-nature  and  benevolence. 

I  thanked  him  heartily  for  his  attention  to  my  comfort,  and 
being  tired  and  hungry,  did  ample  justice  to  the  meal  he  had 
provided. 

"  This  party  has  been  got  up  in  a  hurry,  Saunders  ?" 
"Not  at  all,  sir.      I  carried  out  the  invitations  four  days 
ago." 

"  You  surprise  m*? !"  said  T,  dropping  my  knife  and  fork. 
"  Four  days  ago — ana  I  know  nothing  about  it.  That  is  some- 
♦,^ing  new." 


'iWi; 


0  N  3 


;ovcry,  I  had  been  dclalriod 
ler  hour,  and  meeting  with 
I  with  him  several  times  up 
urned  to  my  uncle's  houGe. 
xpected  coi  ipany  that  day, 
dl,  that  a  large  party  were 

iving  any  intimation  of  the 
pearing  at  dinner,  the  third 
•le  ;  but  I  hurried  away  to 
rcss,  and  join  the  ladies  in 

effected,  before  Saniidera 
nties,  wiiich  he  had  catered 

that  they  should  not  have 
Here  is  an  exeell«int  cut  of 
)  breast  c'  a  partridge,  and 
be  sunkets.  If  you  cannot 
[  says,  thet  you  deserves  to 

ver  a  sma'.l  table  near  the 
tempting  conten\s  thet-eon, 

it  with  beaming  eyes,  his 
,ture  and  benevolence, 
ttention  to  my  comfort,  and 

justice  to  thu  meal  he  had 

hurry,  Saunders  ?" 

t  the  invitations  four  days 

opping  my  knife  and  fork, 
ing  about  it.    That  ia  some- 


THE     M0NCT0N3. 


lai 


"It  is  young  Mr.  Monctou's  doings,  sir.  The  party  is  g!von  ia 
honor  of  his  return.  Says  Mr.  Theophilus  to  the  Guv'uor,  suya 
he,  '  I  siiall  say  nothing  to  Geoffrey,  about  it.  What  u  capi- 
tal joke  it  will  be,  to  see  him  bolt  into  the  room  without  study- 
ing the  Graces  for  on  hour.'  '  I  think  it  was  the  Graces,  he 
said,  sir  ;  but  wlicther  its  a  law  boo,  or  a  book  of  fashions,  sir, 
hang  me  if  1  can  tell." 

"  But  why  did  not  you  give  me  a  hint  of  this,  my  good 
fellow  ?" 

"  Why,  sir,"  said  Saunders,  hesitating  and  looking  down, 
"  everybody  in  this  world  has  his  troubles,  and  I,  sir,  have 
mine.  Trouble,  sir,  makes  a  n.an  forget  every  one's  affairs  but 
his  own  ;  and  &o,  sir,  tiie  thing  slipped  quite  out  of  my  'ead." 

"  And  what  lias  happened  to  trouble  such  a  light  lieart  as 
yours,  Saunders?" 

"  Ah,  sir  I"  sighing  and  shaking  Mo  head,  "  you  remember 
Jemima,  the  pretty  chamber-ni^id,  who  lives  at  Judge  Falcon's, 
ar-oss  the  street,  I  am  sure  you  must,  sir,  for  no  one  that  saw 
Jemima  once  could  forget  her  ;  and  it  was  your  first  praising 
her  that  made  me  cast  an  eye  upon  hor  Well,  sir,  I  looked 
and  loved,  and  became  desperate  about  her,  and  offered  her  my 
'onest  'and  and  'eart  sir,  and  shs  promised  to  become  my  wife. 
Yes,  indeed,  she  did — and  we  exchanged  rings,  and  lucky  six- 
pences and  all  thai ;  and  I  gave  master  warning  for  next  week  ; 
and  took  lodgings  in  a  genteel  country-looking  cottage  on  the 
Deptford  road.  But,  I  was  never  destined  to  find  love  there 
with  Jemima." 

"  And  what  has  happened  to  prevent  your  marriage  ?"  said  I, 
growing  impalieht  and  wishing  to  cut  his  long  story  down  to 
the  basement. 

"  Many  a  slip,  sir,  between  the  cnp  and  the  lip.  There's  truth 
in  those  old  saws  hovvsomever.  Mr.  Theopliilus's  French  valet, 
poured  such  a  heap  of  fiuramery  into  the  dear  girl's  ears,  that 
it  turned  her  'ead  altogether,  and  she  run  off  with  the  haffected 

6 


i 
1 


'^ 


n 


122 


THE    MOSCTOMiS 


puppy  lust  niglit  ;  but  let  him  look  well  after  lilinself.  for  I 
swea>-  '.be  first  time  I  catch  him,  I'll  uiake  cat's  meat  of  hiin. 
A\  sir,  the  song  says,  that  it's  the  ineu  who  is  so  cruelly  deceit- 
ful, but  I  have  found  it  the  reverse.  Never  trust  in  vimen,  sir  I 
I  swear  I'll  hate  'em  all  from  this  day,  for  Jemima's  sake." 

"  Consider  yourself  a  fortunate  fellow,"  said  I.     "  You  have 
made  a  very  narrow  escape." 

"  Ah,  sir,  ijt's  all  very  well  talking,  when  you  don't  feel  the 
smart  yourself.  I  loved  that  false  cretcr  with  my  'ole  'art.  But 
there's  one  thing  (brightening  up)  which  consoles  me  under  this 
great  haffliction,  the  annoyance  that  it  has  given  to  Mr.  Theo- 
philus.  This  morning,  there  was  no  one  to  dress  him — to  flatter 
liis  vanity  and  tell  him  what  a  line  gentleman  he  is— I  had  to 
carry  np  his  boots  and  shaving  waier.  It  was  rare  fun  to  see 
him  stamping  and  raving  about  the  room,  and  visliing  all  the 
vimeu  in  the  vorld  at  the  devil.  But  hark  1— there's  the  diaing- 
room  bell.  More  wine.  The  ladies  have  just  left  for  the  draw- 
ing-room." 

The  blaze  of  lights,  the  gay  assemblage  of  youth  and  beauty 
which  arrested  my  eyes  as  Saunders  threw  back  the  folding- 
doors,  sent  a  sudden  thrill  of  joy  to  my  heart.  Bat  these  feelings 
were  quickly  damped  by  the  cold  and  distant  salutations  I 
received  from  the  larger  portion  of  the  company  \hcre  assem- 
bled. Persons  who  a  few  weeks  before  had  courted  my  acquaint- 
ance and  flattered  my  vanity,  by  saying  and  doing  a  thousand 
agreeable  things,  had  net  a  friendly  word  co  offer. 

The  meaning  glance  which  passed  round  the  circle  when  I 
appeared  among  them,  chilled  the  warm  glow  of  pleasure  which 
the  sight  of  so  many  fair  and  familiar  faces  had  called  up. 

What  could  be  the  meaning  of  all  this.  A  vague  suspicion 
flashed  into  my  rain',  that  my  cousin  was  the  direct  cause  of 
this  change  in  the  aspect  of  affairs,  and.  sick  and  disgusted  with 
the  world,  I  sat  down  ut  a  distant  table  and  began  mechanically 
to  turn  over  a  large  portfolio  of  splendid  prints  that  I  had  not 


f'Uk 


d  S 


T  H  K     M  <)  N  C  T  0  N  a  , 


ia» 


well  after  lilinself.  for  I 
make  cat's  meat  of  liiin. 
;u  who  is  so  cruelly  deceit- 
Never  trust  in  vlinen,  sir  I 
,  for  Jemima's  sake." 
ow,"  said  I.     "  You  have 

,  when  you  don't  feel  the 
ter  with  my'ole  'art.  But 
ich  cousolea  me  uuder  this 
it  has  given  to  Mr.  Tiieo- 
ne  to  dre.ss  him — to  flatter 
reutleman  he  is — I  had  to 
r.  It  was  rare  fun  to  see 
room,  and  vishing  all  the 
hark  ! — there's  the  diaing- 
jave  just  left  for  the  draw- 
Wage  of  youth  and  beauty 
I  threw  back  the  folding- 
y  heart.  Bat  these  feelings 
and  distant  salutations  I 
the  company  \hcre  assem- 
B  had  courted  my  acquaint- 
ing and  doing  a  thousand 
ford  CO  offer. 

I  round  the  circle  when  I 
,rm  glow  01  pleasure  which 
:  faces  had  called  up. 
1  this.  A  vague  suspicion 
in  was  the  direct  cause  of 
nd.  sick  and  disgusted  with 
ble  and  began  mechanically 
!udid  prints  that  I  had  not 


noticed  before — and  which  I  afterwards  discovered,  had  been 
brought  by  Thcophilu.s  from  Paris. 

A  half  snppre,s.sed  titter  from  two  young  Indies  near  nr.c,  and 
which  I  f'.ilt  was  meant  for  me,  stung  my  proud  heart  to  the 
quick.  A  dark  mist  floated  between  me  and  the  lights  ;  and 
the  next  moment,  I  determined  to  leave  the  room  in  which  I 
felt  that  my  presence  was  not  required,  and  where  I  was 
evidently  regarded  as  an  intruder. 

I  had  just  risen  from  my  seat  to  effect  a  quiet  retreat,  when 
the  folding-doors  were  again  thrown  open,  and  Mrs.  Hepburn 
and  Miss  Lee  were  announced. 

What  were  these  strangers  to  me  ?  The  new  arrival  appeared 
to  make  no  small  sensation.  A  general  bustle  ensued,  and  my 
eyes  unconsciously  followed  the  rest. 

The  blood  receded  from  my  checks,  to  flush  them  again  to 
a  feverish  glow,  when  I  instantly  recognized  the  lovely  girl  and 
her  aunt,  who  I  had  for  so  many  months  sought  for,  and  sought 
in  vain. 

Yes  it  was  her — my  adored  Catherine — no  longer  pale  and 
agitated  from  recent  danger,  but  radiant  in  youth  and  l.eauly, 
her  lovely  person  adorned  with  costly  jewels,  and  the  rich 
garments  that  fashion  has  rendered  indispensable  to  her  wealthy 
votaries. 

"  Miss  Lee,"  was  whispered  among  the  ladies  near  me. 

"  Mr.  Moncton's  ward  ?" 

"  The  rich  heiress." 

"  Do  you  think  her  handsome  ?" 

"  Yes — passable."  ' 

" Too  short.' 

"  Her  figure  pretty — but  insignificant." 

"  She  is  just  out." 

"  So  I  hear.  She  will  not  make  any  great  sensation.  Too 
sentimental  and  couutrified.  As  Lord  Byron  says — '  Smells  of 
bread  and  butter.' " 


THE     UONCTOXS 


IE' 


t 


This  last  spiteful  remark,  I  considered  a  compliment.     M7 
rliiu-ming  Kate,  looked  as  fresh  and  natural  as  a  new-blown  rose 
vith  tlic  morning  dew  still  fresh  upon  its  petals.     Thcjre  waa 
nothing  studied  or  affected  about  her— no  appearance  of  display 
—no  effort  to  attract  admiration  ;  slie  was  an  unsophisticated 
child  of  nature,  and  the  delightful  frankness,  with  which  she 
received  the  homage  of  the'  male  portion  of  the  company,  was 
quite  a  contrast  to  the  supercilious  airs  of  the  fashionable  belles. 
The  opinion  of   the  gentlemen  with    regard    to    the    fair 
dihulaiile,  was  quite  the  reverse  of  tho.se  given  by  her  own  sex. 
"  What  a  lovely  girl." 
"  What  an  easy  graceful  carriage." 

"Did  you  ever  see  a  more  charming  expression— a  more 
bewitching  smile  ?     A  perfect  lady  from  head  to  foot." 
"  I  have  lost  my  heart  already." 

"  Ity  Jove  1  won't  she  make  a  noise  in  the  gay  world  ?" 
"  The  beauty  of  the  season." 
"  A  prize,  independent  of  her  large  fortune." 
"  And  doubly  a  prize  with." 
And  thus  the  men  prated  of  her  among  themselves. 
The   excitement   at   length   subsided ;   aud  favored   by   the 
obscurity  of  my  situation,  I  could  watch  at  a  distance  all  her 
movements,  and  never  tire  of  gazing  upon  that  beaming  face. 

By  some  strange  coincidence,  1  could  hardly  think  it  purely 
accidental,  Mrs.  Hepburn  aud  her  niece  came  up  to  the  table 
upon  which  I  was  leaning. 

I  rose  up  in  confusion,  wondering  if  they  would  recognize  me, 
and  offered  the  elder  lady  my  chair. 

In  my  hurry  and  agitation,  the  portfolio  fell  from  my  hand, 
aud  the  fine  prints  were  scattered  over  the  floor  and  table. 

A  general  langli  arose  at  my  expense — I  felt  annoyed,  but 
laughed  as  loudly  as  the  rest.  Miss  Lee,  very  good-naturedly 
assisted  me  in  r«storiug  the  prints  to  their  place,  then  looking 
earnestly  in  uiy  face  for  a  few  seconds,  she  said—"  Surely,  I 


'"inl 


THE      M  0  N'  C  r  O  S  8  . 


123 


•ed  a  comi)limont.  M7 
iral  118  a  iiew-blowii  rose 
its  i»etiilH.  Tlmrc  was 
10  appcuraiice  of  display 
was  an  unsopiiisticatcd 
nkiiess,  with  which  she 
3U  of  the  company,  was 
of  the  fashionable  belles, 
h  regard  to  the  fair 
5  given  by  her  own  sex. 


ing  expression — a  more 
I  head  to  foot." 

n  the  gay  world  ?" 

ortune." 

mg  themselves, 
i ;   and  favored   by   the 
ch  at  a  distance  all  her 
)on  that  beaming  face, 
d  hardly  think  it  purely 
CO  came  up  to  the  table 

they  would  recognize  me, 

tfolio  fell  from  my  hand, 
the  floor  and  table, 
nse — I  felt  annoyed,  but 
Lee,  very  good-naturedly 
»  their  place,  then  looking 
ds,  she  said—"  Surely,  I 


am  not  deceived — you  are  the  gcntleuiiin  wlio  rescued  mc  from 
that  frightful  situation  in  Oxford  street?" 

"The  same,"  said  I,  with  a  smile. 

"  How  delighted  I  am  to  meet  you  once  more,  my  bravo 
preserver,"  she  cried,  giving  nie  her  hand,  and  warndy  shaking 
mine  ;  "  I  was  afraid  that  I  should  never  see  you  again.  And 
your  name — you  must  tell  me  your  name." 

"  Geoffrey  Moncton.  Hut,  Miss  Lee,  do  not  distress  me  by 
thinking  so  much  of  a  trifling  service,  which  gave  mo  so  much 
pleasure."' 

"  Trifling,  do  you  call  it.  Mr.  Geoffrey  Moncton,  yon  saved 
my  life,  and  I  never  can  forget  the  debt  of  gratitude  I  owe  you. 
Aunt — turning  to  Mrs.  Hepburn — do  you  remember  this  gen- 
tleman ?  How  often  we  have  talked  that  adventure  over,  and 
wondered  who  my  preserver  was.  It  is  such  a  pleasure  to  i 
him  here." 

The  old  lady,  though  not  quite  so  eloquent  as  her  niece,  was 
kind  enough  in  her  way.  Wishing  to  change  the  suiyect,  I 
asked  Miss  Lee  if  she  drew  V 

"  A  little." 

"  Let  us  examine  these  beautiful  prints." 

I  gave  her  a  chair,  and  leant  over  her.  My  heart  fluttered 
with  delight.  I  forgot  my  recent  mortification.  I  was  near 
her,  and,  in  the  rapture  of  the  moment,  could  have  defied  the 
malice  of  the  whole  world. 

"  I  am  no  judge  of  the  merits  or  demerits  of  a  picture,"  she 
said,  in  her  sweet,  gentle  voice.  "  I  know  what  pleases  re, 
and  suffer  my  hea'-t  to  decide  for  my  head." 

"  That  is  exactly  my  case.  Miss  Ijoc.  A  picture  to  interest 
me,  must  nroduce  the  same  effect  upon  my  mind  as  if  the  object 
represented  was  really  theie.  This  is  the  reason,  perhaps,  why 
I  feel  less  pleasure  in  examining  those  pictures  by  the  ancient 
masters,  though  portrayed  with  matchless  skill,  that  represent 
the  heathen  deities.     Wi.h  Ji!ni»«t.  Mar       '\  Vcuus,  I  can  feel 


12A 


THE     MOVCTONB. 


little  syiiipatliy,  while  the  trutiit'ul  nnd  Rpirited  delincationa 
of  Williie  mill  (luirisborougli,  wliicli  have  been  fuiiiiliur  from 
childiiooil,  striiie  homo  to  tho  heart." 

Before  MIhs  Lee  could  reply,  Theophilus  Moiietoii  walked  to 
the  tuble  at  which  we  were  talking.     lie  stared  at  me,  without 
deigning  a  word  of  recognition,  aud  shook  hands  cordially  with 
ft  MisH  Leo  and  hov  aunt. 

■ffW  "  Happy  to  .see  you  here,  Catherine — was  afraid  you  would 

be  too  much  fatigued,  after  dancing  all  night,  to  give  us  a  look 
in  this  evening.  Been  admiring  my  prints  ?  S|)lendid  collec- 
tion, ain't  they  ?  By-the-by,  Mr.  Geoffrey,  I  would  thank  you 
to  be  more  carcfnl  in  handling  them.  Persons  unaccustomed  to 
fine  drawings,  are  apt  to  injure  them  by  rough  treatment." 

A  contemptuous  glance  was  my  reply,  which  was  returned 
by  a  sidelong  withering  glare  of  hate. 

"  That  picture,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,"  continued 
my  tormentor,  anxious  to  divert  Miss  Lee's  attention  from  me, 
"  is  a  fine  portrait,  by  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence.  You  are  au 
admirer  of  his  style  ;  let  us  examine  the  picture  nearer  ;  I  waiit 
to  have  your  opinion  of  it." 

They  crossed  the  room.  In  a  few  seconds,  a  large  group 
gathered  before  the  picture  of  which  Theophilus  autf  Miss  Leo 
formed  the  nucleus,  and  half  a  dozen  wax-lights  were  held  up 
to  exhibit  it  to  the  best  advantage. 

Theophilus  was  eloquent  in  praising  Lawrence's  stylo  of  paiut- 
ing,  and  entertained  the  company  with  an  elaborate  detail  of  all 
tlie  celebrated  paintings  he  had  seen  abroad  ;  the  studios  he  had 
visited,  and  the  distinguished  artists  he  had  patronized.  Tho 
fdlow  could  talk  well,  when  he  pleased,  on  any  subject,  and 
possessed  considerable  talent  and  taste  for  the  arts  ;  yet,  I 
thought  him  more  egotistical  and  affected  than  usual,  when 
standing  beside  the  simple  and  graceful  Catherine  Lee. 

She  listened  to  him  with  politeness,  until  the  gratuitous  lec- 
ture came  to  an  end,  and  then  quietly  resumed  her  seat  at  the 


id  spirited  delineationa 
lave  been  fiuiiiliur  from 

liius  Moiictoii  walked  to 
[e  stared  at  me,  without 
jok  hands  cordially  with 

—was  afraid  you  would 
.  night,  to  give  us  a  look 
tints?  Splendid  coUec- 
rey,  I  would  thank  you 
L'ersons  unaccustomed  to 
rough  treatment." 
[)ly,  which  was  returned 

of  the  room,"  continued 
jee's  attention  from  me, 
Lawrence.  You  are  au 
3  picture  nearer  ;  I  want 

seconds,  a  large  group 
Dheophilus  am?  Miss  Lee 
wax-lights  were  held  up 

Lawrence's  stylo  of  paiut- 
an  elaborate  detail  of  all 
jroad  ;  the  studios  he  had 
he  had  patronized.  Tho 
ied,  on  any  snbject,  and 
ste  for  the  arts  ;  yet,  I 
Bfected  than  usual,  when 
I  Catherine  Lee. 
until  the  gratuitous  lee- 
y  resumed  her  seat  at  the 


T  H  K     U  O  N  U  T  0   I  S  , 


127 


table  by  mc,  with  whom  she  entered  into  a  lively  conver* 
sation. 

The  swarthy  glow  of  indignation  mounted  to  my  cousin's 
wan  face,  lie  drew  back,  and  muttered  scunething  inuudibiy 
between  his  shut  teeth,  while  I  secretly  enjoyed  his  chagrin. 
When  supper  was  announced  I  hicl  the  honor  of  conducting 
Miss  Leu  down  stairs,  leaving  i.i^  cousin  to  take  charge  of  the 
elder  lady.  Nor  did  my  triuniiih  end  here.  Catherine  insisted 
on  taking  a  seat  at  the  lower  end  of  the  table,  and  I  found 
niysijlf,  once  more,  placed  by  her  side. 

"  1  do  detest  npper  seats  at  feasts  and  synagogues,''  said  she, 
"it  exposes  you  to  observation,  while  in  our  pleasant  obscurity 
we  can  enjoy  a  little  friendly  chat.  I  never  could  understand 
why  so  many  ladies  quarrel  so  much  about  taking  precedence  of 
each  other." 

"  It  is  oidy  ambition  in  a  small  way,"  said  L 

"  Very  small,  indeed,"  she  continued,  laughing.  "  But  tell 
me,  why  you  were  not  at  Mrs.  Wilton's  large  party  last  night  ?" 

"  Simply,  because  I  was  not  invited." 

"  The  Monctons  were  there,  fattier  and  son.  But,  perhaps 
yon  mix  very  little  in  the  gaieties  of  the  town." 

"  Since  Theophilus  returned,  I  have  been  very  little  from 
home  ;  and  have  become  a  mere  cipher  with  my  old  friends.  A 
few  weeks  ago,  these  Wiltons  courted  my  acquaintance,  and  the 
young  men  vied  with  each  other,  in  paying  me  attention.  To- 
light,  we  met  as  perfect  strangers.  To  me,  the  change  is 
iiiaccountab'e.  I  am,  however,  a  perfect  novice  in  the  ways  of 
the  world.  Such  examples  of  selfish  neanness  often  repeated, 
will  render  me  a  misanthrope." 

"  You  must  not  condemn  all,  becat  le  you  have  experienced 
the  unmerited  neglect  of  a  few,"  said  Catherine.  "  Selfish, 
interested  people  are  found  in  every  community.  It  is  a  makim 
with  me,  never  to  judge  the  mass  by  individuals.  Many  of  tho 
(lersons  we  meet  with  in  the  world  dO'  not  live  entirely  for  it, 


■•'>»*wiS«Srt,«!»S"fi.»':-iMS*ft''T«"*53t»5' : 


128 


Tlie     MONCT0N9. 


nml  arc  incapiibln  of  the  conduct  you  deplore.  1  Imvc  met  with 
warm  livarts  iind  kind  friends  amid  liie  gay  sceiioM  yoii  condemn. 
— yoiinp  people,  who  like  mynelf,  are  compelled  by  circumsiances 
to  nii»,_le  in  society,  while  their  thoughts  and  affections  are  far 

away.' 

"  You  have  never  experienced  the  frowns  of  the  world,'  I 
said,  "  I  can  scarcely  allow  you  to  be  a  competent  judge." 

"  I  am  prepared  to  meet  thum,"  h!ic  rei)lied,  quickly-  thoQ 
Blo|)ped— aud  fiighed  deeply.     I  looked  up  inquiringly. 

The  fcxpression  of  her  fine  face  was  changed  from  a  cheerful 
to  a  pensive  cast.  It  was  not  actual  sorrow  that  threw  a  shade 
over  her  clear  \<row,  but  she  looked  as  if  she  had  encounterei' 
some  unexpected  misfortune,  and  was  prepared  to  meet  it  with 
i.vsignation.  She  passed  her  small  white  hand  slowly  across  her 
forehead,  and  I  thought  I  saw  tears  trembling  in  her  eyes.  My 
interest  Was  deeply  excited,  and  I  loved  her  better  for  having 
suffered.  1  redoubled  my  attentions,  and  before  the  company 
rose  from  table,  I  fancied  that  she  no  longer  regarded  me  with 
indifference. 

From  tliis  happy  dream,  I  too  soon  awoke  to  an  agoniziug 
consciousness  of  niy  owu  insignificance. 

A  Counsellor  Sabine,  who  had  been  conversing  with  my  unclo 
during  the  greater  part  of  the  evening,  beckoned  me  over  to  a 
distant  part  of  the  room,  and  1  reluctantly  obeyed  the  summous. 
He  wanted  me  to  settle  a  dispute  between  him  and  Mr. 
Monctou,  relative  to  some  papers,  which  he  said,  had  been 
entrusted  to  my  care. 

My  place  by  Catherine  Lee's  side,  was  instantly  filled  by 

Theophilus. 

Mrs.  Hepburn,  Catherine's  aunt,  asked  him  in  a  low  voice, 
which,  occupied  as  J  was  with  other  matters,  did  not  fail  to 
reach  my  cars,  who  I  was,  and  the  station  I  held  in  society, 
and  ended  her  rcnuirki.,  by  passing  sundry  encomiums  on  my 
persou  and  .iccomplishracnts. 


T  H  R     M  0  N  0  T  ()  N  8  , 


129 


plorc.  1  have  met  wilh 
^ny  scuiit'H  you  coiiuoinn. 
npclleil  by  circuiiisiaiicea 
Its  uiid  uttlutiunti  are  lur 

frowns  of  till)  world,'  i 
coiiilM-teiit  judge." 
ic  ri'plied,  quickly — tliOQ 
up  inquiringly. 
cliuiigu<t  Iroui  u  oliecrful 
irrow  that  threw  a  shade 
i  if  she  hud  eueounterei' 
Ijrapured  to  nioet  it  with 
te  hand  slowly  across  liur 
nibling  in  her  eyes.  My 
id  her  better  for  having 
and  before  the  company 
longer  regarded  luc  with 

I  awoke  to  an  agonlziug 

conversing  with  my  uncle 
g,  beckoned  me  over  to  a 
iitly  obeyed  the  summous. 
B  between  bim  and  Mr. 
rbich  he  said,  had  been 

,  was  instantly  filled  by 

iked  him  in  a  low  voice, 
mutters,  did  not  fail  to 
station  I  held  in  society, 

lundry  encomiums  on  my 


"  Acrmnplishments  P  repeated  Theophilus,  with  a  sneer.  "  I 
know  not  how  lie  should  be  aceoniplishid,  Mrs.  llepiiuru.  lie 
is  a  poor  clerk  in  my  father's  office  ;  and  us  to  his  standing  in 
society,  that  is  something  new  to  me.  He  is  a  natural  son  of  my 
nncle  Edward's,  whom  my  father  adoj)ted  into  the  family,  and 
brought  him  up  ont  of  charity.  I  was  suritrised  at  him,  au 
uninvited  guest,  daring  to  address  bis  conversation  to  Miss 
Lee." 

It  was  well  for  the  dastard,  that  be  was  protected  by  the 
l)rc8ence  of  ladies,  and  beyond  the  roach  of  my  arm,  or  I 
certainly  should  haro  committed  an  act  of  violence — perhaps 
murder. 

I  restrained  my  indignation,  however,  and  appeared  out- 
wardly calm — received  some  instructions  from  the  counsellor 
and  noted  them  down  with  stoical  precision.  My  band  did  not 
tremble,  my  passion  was  too  terrible  for  trifling  demonstra- 
tions. I  could  have  put  a  pistol  to  his  head,  and  seen  him 
bleeding  at  my  feet,  witiiout  feeling  one  pang  of  remorse. 

Miss  Lee's  carriage  was  announced.  I  roused  myself  from 
a  dream  of  vengeance,  and  offered  my  arm  to  conduct  ber 
down  stairs.  She  cust  upon  me  a  look  of  sorrowful  meaning, 
and  her  aunt  refused  my  services  with  a  distant  bow. 

I  drew  proudly  back.  "This,"  I  thought,  "is  their  gfrati- 
tude.     This  is  like  the  rest  of  the  world." 

Mrs.  Hepburn  gave  her  hund  to  Theophilus,  and  with  a  grin 
of.  triumph  he  led  them  out. 

After  the  company  had  separated  I  went  up  to  Theophilus, 
and  demanded  au  explanation  of  his  ungentlemanly  conduct 
The  answer  1  received  was  an  insolent  laugh. 

No  longer  able  to  restrain  my  feelings,  I  poured  upon  him 
the  boiliiig  rage  of  my  indignation,  and  did  and  said  many  bit- 
ter things,  that  bad  been  better  unsaid.  He  threatened  to  com- 
plain of  me  to  bis  father.  I  dared  him  to  do  his  worst — and 
left  the  room  in  a  state  of  dreadful  excitement. 

6* 


ISO 


T  It  le      M  (>  N  C  T  0  i4  H  . 


'■I- 

I 


The  noxt  tnoriiin);^,  while  biixy  in  the  offiuo,  Mr.  Moncton  cait« 
in,  and  closed  the  door  ciirefully  after  hlin. 

I  rose  as  lie  entered  and  stood  erect  before  him.  I  Icncw  by 
the  deadly  piiiior  of  bia  fuce,  that  something  decisive  was  about 
to  take  piiicc. 

"  OcolTrey,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  hoarse  voice,  which  ho  vainly 
endeavored  to  make  calm,  "  you  have  grossly  insulted  my  son, 
and  spoken  to  him  in  tlic  most  disrespectful  terms  of  me,  your 
friend  and  benefactor.  Without  you  will  make  a  full  and  satis- 
factory apology  to  me  for  such  intemperate  language,  and  ask 
his  pardon,  you  may  dreud  my  just  displeasure." 

"Ask  liis  jdirdon  !''  I  cried  ;  almost  choking  with  passion — 
"  for  what  'i  For  his  treating  me  like  a  menial  and  a  slave  ! — 
Never,  Mr.  Moncton,  never  I" 

My  uncle  regarded  me  with  the  sume  icy  glnnco  which  froze 
my  blood  when  a  child,  while  I  recapitulated  my  wrongs,  with 
all  the  elo(juente  which  passion  gives.  I'lission  which  makes 
even  the  slow  of  -speech  act  the  part  of  an  orator. 

He  listeued  to  me,  with  a  smile  of  derision. 

Carried  beyond  the  bounds  of  prudence,  I  told  him,  that  I 
would  no  longer  be  subjected  to  such  degrading  tyranny — that 
his  deceitful  conduct  had  cancelled  all  ties  of  obligation  between 
us — that  the  favors  lately  conferred  upon  me,  I  now  saw,  had 
only  been  bestowed  to  effect  my  ruin — that  he  had  been  acting 
a  base  and  treacherous  game  with  me  to  further  his  own  dishon- 
est  views — that  I  was  fully  aware  of  his  motives,  and  appreci- 
ated them  as  they  deserved.  That  he  well  knew  the  story  of 
my  illegitinincy  was  a  forgery,  that  I  had  the  means  to  prove  it 
one,  and  would  do  it  shortly.  That  the  term  of  my  articles 
would  expire  on  the  following  day,  and  I  would  then  leave  his 
house  for  evtr  atid  seek  my  own  living." 

"  You  may  do  so  to-diiy,  he  replied,  in  the  same  cool  sar- 
castic tunc  ;  and  unlocking  his  desk  he  took  out  the  indentures. 

A  sudden  terror  seized  me.     Scmething  in  his  look  threatf|iL'(i 


''is.m; 


THE     MONCTONfJ. 


181 


Ice,  Mr.  Moncton  caitt 

jforo  him.  I  knew  by 
ing  (lecLsivu  wu8  about 

oico,  which  ho  vainly 
■ossiy  iiisulteil  my  hoii, 
fill  terms  of  mo,  your 
maiio  a  full  and  sutis- 
ito  language,  and  ask 
iasure." 

loklug  witli  passion — • 
meniul  and  a  slave  1 — 

cy  glance  which  froze 

ated  my  wrongs,  with 

Passion  which  makes 

a  orator. 

sion. 

ICC,  I  told  him,  that  I 

i;rading  tyranny — that 

I  of  obligation  between 
)n  me,  I  now  saw,  had 
at  he  had  been  acting 
urther  his  own  dishon- 
motives,  and  appreci- 

II  knew  the  story  of 
the  means  to  prove  it 

e  term  of  my  articles 
would  then  leave  his 

in  the  same  cool  sar- 
)k  out  the  indentures. 
in  his  look  threatr|icd 


danger  -I  drew  a  qiiiekcr   breath,  and  advanced  a  few  paeon 

nearer. 

All  my  hopes  were  centered  in  that  sheet  i>f  parchment,  to 
obtain  which,  I  had  endured  heven  years  of  cruel  bondage. 
"  No,  no,"  I  said,  mentally— he  cannot  be  K\ich  a  villain— he 
dare  not  do  it  I" 

The  next  moment  the  fatal  scroll  lay  torn  and  defaced  at  my 

feet. 

A  cry  of  despair  burst  from  my  lips~I  sprang  forward  and 
with  one  blow  laid  him  senseless  at  ray  ft  ;t  and  lied  from  tho 

house. 

I  saw  Robert  Moncton  but  once  again.  ilecoUection  shud- 
ders when  I  recall  that  dreadful  meeting. 

I  walked  rapidly  down  the  street,  -  rfcctly  unconscious  that  I 
was  without  my  hut,  and  that  the  ruin  was  falling  in  torrents  ; 
or  that  I  was  an  object  of  curiosity  to  the  gaping  crowds  that 
followed  me. 

Some  one  canglit  my  arm. 

I  turned  angrily  round  to  shake  off  the  intruder— it  was  my 
friend  Harrison. 

"In  the  name  of  Heaven.  Geoffrey,  tell  me  what  has  hap- 
pened I     What  is  the  matter— are  you  in  your  right  senses  If 
Have  you  quarrelled  with  your  uncle  ?     Let  me  return  with 
.  you  to  the  house,"  were  questions  he  asked  in  a  breath. 

"My  uncle!     He   is   an  infernal  scoundrel!"  I   exclaimed, 
throwing  out  my  clenched  hand,  and  hurrying  on  still  faster. 
'•  Oh,  that  I  could  crush  him  with  one  blow  of  this  fist  I" 
•'  Geoffrey,  you  are  mad— do  you  know  what  you  say  ?" 
"  Perfectly  well— stand  back,  and  let  me  kill  him  I" 
He  put  his  arm  forcibly  round  me.     "  Calnv  yourself,  dear 
Geoffrey.    What  has  caused  this  dreadful  excitement  ?    Good 
God  I  how  yon  tremble.     Lean  upon  me- heavier  yet.     The 
arm  of  a  sincere  friend  supports  you- one  who  will  never  desert 
you,  ^t  whi<t  will  befall." 


I 


132 


THK     M0XCT0N3, 


"Leave  me,  George,  to  my  fate.  I  have  been  sliaraefully 
treated,  and  I  don't  care  a what  becomes  of  me  I" 

"  If  yoii  are  unable  to  take  care  of  yourself,  Geoffrey,"  he 
replied,  clasping  my  hand  fervently  in  his  own,  and  directing 
my  stepri  down  a  less  frequented  street,  "  it  is  highly  necessary 
that  some  one  should,  until  your  mind  is  restored  to  its  usual 
tranquillity.  Return  with  rae  tc  my  lodgings  ;  take  a  composing 
draught  and  go  to  bed.  Your  eyes  are  bloodshot,  and  starting 
from  your  head  for  want  of  sleep." 

"  Sleep  1  how  is  it  possible  for  me  to  sleep,  when  the  blood  is 
boiling  in  ray  veins,  and  my  brain  is  on  fire,  and  I  am  tempted 
every  moment  to  commit  an  act  of  desperation  ?" 

"  This  feverish  state  caimot  last,  my  poor  friend  ;  these 
furious  bursts  of  passion  must  yield  to  exhaustion.  Your  knees 
bend  under  yon.  In  a  few  minutes  we  shall  be  beyond  public 
observation,  and  can  talk  over  the  matter  calmly." 

As  he  ceased  speakii.g,  a  deadly  faintness  stole  over  me — my 
head  grew  giddy,  the  surrounding  objects  swam  round  me  in 
endless  circles  and  with  surprising  rapidity,  the  heavens  vanished 
from  my  sight,  itnd  darkness,  blank  darkness  closed  me  in,  and  I 
should  have  fallen  to  the  earth,  but  for  the  strong  arm  that 
held  me  in  its  grasp. 

When  I  again  opened  my  eyes,  it  was  in  the  identical  apothe- 
cary's shop  into  which,  some  months  before,  I  had  carried  the 
fainting  Catherine  Lee.  My  old  enemy,  the  little  apothecary, 
was  preparing  to  open  a  vein  in  my  arm.  This  operation 
afforded  mo  instant  relief ;  my  fury  began  to  subside,  and  tears 
slowly  trickled  down  my  cheeks. 

George,  who  was  anxiously  watching  every  change  in  my 
countenance,  told  the  shop-boy  to  call  a  coach,  which  conveyed 
me  in  a  few  minutes  to  bis  old  lodgings  iu  Fleet  street. 


ro  N  8. 


THE    MONCTONa, 


188 


3.  I  have  been  shamefully 
lat  becomes  of  me  I" 
e  of  yourself,  Geoffrey,"  he 
r  in  bis  own,  and  directing 
reet,  "  it  is  highly  necessary 
lind  is  restored  to  its  usual 
lodgings  ;  take  u  composing 
are  bloodshot,  and  starting 

3  to  sleep,  when  the  blood  is 
is  on  fire,  and  I  am  tempted 
lesperation  ?" 

st,  my  poor  friend  ;  these 
to  exhaustion.  Your  knees 
we  shall  be  beyond  public 
natter  calmly." 
faintness  stole  over  me — my 
objects  swam  round  me  in 
tpidity,  the  heavens  vanished 
larkness  clo'sed  me  in,  and  I 
it  for  the  strong  arm  that 

was  in  the  identical  apothe- 
is  before,  I  had  carried  the 
lemy,  the  little  apothecary, 
my  arm.  This  operation 
began  to  subside,  and  tears 

ching  every  change  in  my 
all  a  coach,  which  conveyed 
igs  in  Fleet  street. 


!  CHiPTER    XV. 

G. JORGE    HARRISON    TKLL8   HIS    HISTORY. 

Many  days  passed  over  me  of  which  I  was  totally  uncon- 
scious. A  violent  fever  had  set  in,  and  I  was  not  aware  of  my 
situation  ;  scarcely  of  the  bodily  sufferings  I  endured.  My 
wants  were  rainictered  to  by  the  kindest,  triust  friend  that 
ever  blessed  aim  soothed  the  miseries  of  the  unfortunate. 

Fancying  myself  stili  under  the  control  of  Robert  Moncton, 
and  a  resident  beneath  his  roof,  I  raved  continually  of  my 
wrongs,  and  exhausted  myself  by  threats  of  vengeance. 

Long  before  the  crisis  of  the  fever  was  passed,  George  had 
gathered  from  my  impotent  ravings  the  story  of  my  injuries. 

After  fluctuating  a  long  time  between  life  and  death,  youth 
and  a  naturally  strong  constitution  conquered  my  malady,  aud 
I  once  more  thought  and  felt  like  a  rational  creature. 

My  indignation  against  my  uncle  and  cousin  subsided  into  a 
sullen,  implacable  hatred,  to  overcome  which  I  tried,  and  even 
prayed  in  vain.  Ashamed  of  harboring  this  sinful  passion,  I  yet 
wanted  the  moral  courage  and  Christian  forbearance,  to  over- 
come what  reason  and  conscience  united  to  condemn. 

Degraded  in  my  own  estimation,  I  longed,  yet  dreaded  to  con- 
flde  to  the  generous  Harrison,  that  the  man  he  loved  and 
attended  with  such  devotion,  was  capable  of  such  base  degen- 
eracy— of  entertaining  sentiments  only  worthy  of  Robert  Mono* 
ton  and  his  son. 

The  violence  of  my  disorder  had  reduced  me  to  such  a  stats 
of  weakness  that  I  imagined  myself  at  the  point  of  death,  when 


-I 

I 


B 


Wr 


nervous 
greatly  affected  that  I  yielded  to  the  most  childish  fears,  and 
coiitercplated  dying  with  indescribable  horror. 

Harrison,  who  was  uuac([uaiuted  with  the  state  of  my  mind, 
attributed  these  feelings  to  the  reaction  produced  by  the  fever  ; 
and  thinking  that  a  state  of  quiescence  was  necessary  for  my 
recovery,  seldom  spoke  to  mo  but  at  those  limes  when,  with 
tenderness  almost  feminine,  he  gave  me  food  and  medicine, 
arranged  my -pillows,  or  made  affectionate  inquiries  about  my 
bodily  state. 

I  often  pretended  to  bo  asleep,  while  my  mind  was  actively 
employed  in  conjuring  up  a  host  of  ghastly  phantoms,  which 
prevented  my  recovery,  and  were  effectually  undermining  my 
reason. 

One  afternoon,  as  I  lay  in  a  sort  of  dreamy  state,  between 
sleeping  and  waking,  and  mournfully  brooding  over  my  perishing 
hopes  and  approaching  dissolution,  I  thought  that  a  majestic 
Ogure  clothed  in  flowing  garments  of  glistening  white,  came  to 
my  bedside,  and  said  to  me  in  tones  of  melodious  sweetness, 
"  Poor,  perishing,  cinful  child  of  earth,  if  you  wish  to  enter 
Heaven,  you  must  first  forgive  your  enemies.  The  gate  of  Life 
is  kept  by  Love,  -vho  is  ready  to  open  to  every  one  who  first 
withdraws  the  ba'  which  Hatred  has  placed  before  the  narrow 
t'ltrance." 

Ovcrwhclrued  with  fear  and  astonishment,  I  started  up  in  the 
Juid,  exclaiming  in  tones  of  agonized  entreaty,  "  Oh  God,  forgive 
nie  1     I  cannot  do  it  1'' 

"  Do  what,  dearest  Geoffrey  ?"  said  George,  coming  to  the 
bedside,  and  taking  my  hand  in  his. 

"Forgive  my  enemies.  Forgive  those  wretches  who  have 
brought  me  to  this  state,  and  by  their  cruel  conduct  placed  both 
life  and  reason  in  jeopardy.  1  camiot  do  it,  though  He,  tha 
merciful — who  dying  forgave  his  enemie'  -commands  la)  to 
do  so."  ~  "^ 


ro  K  8. 


THE     M  0  X  G  r  O  N  S  . 


135 


y  nervous  system  wa«  no 
he  most  childiBlt  fears,  and 
le  horror. 

yitli  tlie  state  of  my  mind, 
,ioii  produced  by  the  fever  ; 
ence  was  necessary  for  my 
at  those  limes  when,  with 
re  me  food  and  medicine, 
jtionate  inquiries  about  my 

irhile  my  mind  was  actively 
>f  giiastly  phantoms,  which 
effectually  undermining  my 

D  of  dreamy  state,  between 

brooding  over  my  perishing 

I  tiiought  that  a  majestic 

of  glistening  white,  came  to 

les  of  melodious  sweetness, 

arth,  if  you  wish  to  enter 

enemies.    The  gate  of  Life 

)pen  to  every  one  who  first 

as  placed  before  the  narrow 

lishment,  I  started  up  in  the 
entreaty,  "  Oli  God,  forgive 

said  George,  coming  to  the 

!   those  wretches  who  have 

eir  cruel  conduct  placed  both 

iniot  do  it,  though  He,  tha 

euemie'  —commands  van  to 

V 


'•  Geoffrey,"  said  Harrison,  tenderly,  "  you  nan  never  recover 
your  healti),  or  feel  happy  till  you  can  accomplish  this  great 
moral  victory  over  sin  and  self." 

"  I  cannot  do  it,"  1  responded,  turning  from  him,  and  burying 
my  face  in  the  bed-clothes  while  1  hardened  my  he:^,rt  ag  Inst 

conviction.     "  No— not  if  I  go  to for  refusing.    I  fee!  as  if 

I  were  already  there." 

"No  wonder,"  returned  Harrison,  sternly.  "  Hatred  and  its 
concomitant  passion,  Revenge,  are  feelings  worthy  of  the 
dammed.  I  bcLeech  you,  Geoffrey,  by  the  dying  prayer  of  that 
blessed  Saviour,  whom  you  piofess  to  believe,  try  to  rise 
superior  to  these  soul-debasing  passions  ;  and  not  on'y  forgive, 
but  learn  to  pity  the  authors  of  your  sufferings." 

"  I  have  done  my  best.     I  hove  even  prayed  to  do  so." 

"  Not  in  a  right  spirit,  or  your  prayers  would  have  been 
lieard  and  accepted.  What  makes  you  dread  death  ?  Speak 
the  truth  out  boldly.  Does  not  this  hatred  to  your  uncli  and 
couiin  stind  between  you  and  Heaven  ?" 

"  I  confess  it.     But,  Harrison,  could  you  forgive  them  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Not  under  the  same  provocation  ?" 

"  I  have  done  so  under  worse." 

"  God  in  Heaven  I — how  is  that  possible  ?" 

"  It  is  true." 

"  1  won't  believe  it,"  said  I,  turning  angrily  upon  the  pillow, 
"  It  is  not  in  human  nature — and  few  can  rise  above  the  weak- 
ness of  their  kind." 

"Listen  to  lue,  GecSTrey,"  said  Harrison,  seating  himself  on 
the  side  of  the  bed.  "  Yon  wished  very  much,  at  one  time,  to 
learn  from  me  the  story  of  my  past  life,  I  did  not  think  it 
prudent  at  that  time,  and  while  under  Robert  Moncton's  roof, 
to  gratify  your  curiosity.  1  will  do  so  now,  in  the  hope 
of  beguiling  yoo  out  of  your  present  morbid  state  of  feeling, 
while  it  may  answer  the  purpose  of  teaching  yon  a  good,  moral 
lesson,  which  I  trust  you  will  not  easily  furget. 


186 


TH  ■     M0NCT0X8 


"  Man's  happiness  depends  m  a  great  measure  on  the  sjra- 
pnlliy  of  others.  His  sufferings,  by  the  same  rule,  are  greatly 
alleviated  when  contrasted  with  the  miseries  of  his  neighbors, 
particularly,  if  their  sorrows  happen  to  exceed  his  own. 

"Much  of  my  history  must  remain  in  the  shade,  because  time 
alone  can  unravel  the  mystery  by  which  I  am  surrounded  ;  and 
many  important  passages  in  my  life,  prudence  forces  me  to 
conceal.  But,  my  dear  fellow,  it  my  trials  and  sufferings  will  in 
any  way  reconcile  you  to  your  lot,  and  enable  yon  to  bear  with 
f(»rtitude  your  own,  your  friend  will  not  have  suffered  and  sinned 
in  vain." 

George  adjusted  my  pillows,  and  gave  me  my  medicine,  stirred 
the  fire  to  a  cheerful  blaze,  and  commenced  the  narrative  that 
fur  so  many  mouths  I  had  so  ardently  longed  to  hear. 


Harrison's  stoby, 


"Perhaps,  Geoffrey,  you  are  not  aware,  that  your  grand- 
father left  Sir  Robert  Moncton,  the  father  of  the  present 
IJaronet,  guardian  and  trustee  to  his  two  sons,  until  they  arrived 
at  their  majority.  Edward  at  the  time  of  his  death,  being 
eighteen  years  of  age,  Robert  a  year  and  a  half  younger. 

"  What  tempted  Geoffrey  Moncton,  to  leave  his  sons  to  the 
gnardianship  of  the  aristocratic  father,  from  whom  he  had 
parted  in  anger  many  years  before,  no  one  could  tell. 

"  The  Baronet  wau  a  very  old  man,  and  was  much  reputed  in 
his  day  ;  and  it  is  possible  that  the  dying  merchant  found  by 
experience,  that  he  could  place  more  reliance  on  the  honor  of  a 
g-iiticman,  than  in  a  man  of  business.  Or  it  might  be,  that  on 
hi.^  death-bed,  he  repented  of  the  long  family  estrangement,  and 
left  his  sons  to  the  care  of  their  grandfather,  as  a  proof  that  all 
feelings  of  animosity  were  buried  in  his  grave. 

"  Sir  Robert's  eldest  son  had  been  dead  for  some  years,  and 
the  present  Baronet,  who  resided  with  his  grandfather,  was  just 


0  X  8 


THE      M  f»  N  C  t  OSS. 


ibt 


jreat  measure  on  the  syTii- 
the  same  rule,  are  greatly 
I  miseries  of  his  neighbors, 
to  exceed  his  own. 
n  in  the  shade,  because  time 
lich  I  am  surrounded  ;  and 
fe,  prudence  forces  me  to 
trials  and  sufiFeriugs  will  in 
,nd  enable  yon  to  bear  with 
sot  have  suffered  and  sinned 

ave  me  my  medicine,  stirred 
imcnced  the  narrative  that 
y  longed  to  hear. 


STO  RY. 

it  aware,  that  your  grand- 
the  father  of  the  present 
two  sons,  until  they  arrived 
e  time  of  his  death,  being 
r  and  a  half  younger, 
m,  to  leave  his  sons  to  the 
ather,  from  whom  he  had 
no  one  could  tell, 
n,  and  was  much  reputed  in 
le  dying  merchant  found  by 
re  reliance  on  the  lienor  of  a 
<8.  Or  it  might  bo,  that  on 
ng  family  estrangement,  and 
ndfather,  as  a  proof  that  all 
his  grave. 

en  dead  for  some  years,  aad 
ith  his  grandfather,  was  just 


two  years  older  t'lan  your  father,  and  for  several  years  the 
cousins  lived  very  amicably  beneath  the  same  roof — were  sent  to 
the  same  college  in  Oxford  to  finish  their  studies  and  mingle  in 
tlie  same  society. 

"  It  was  unfortunate  for  your  father,  who  had  too  little  ballast 
to  regulate  his  own  conduct,  that  he  contracted  the  most  ardenf 
friendship  for  the  young  Alexander,  who  was  a  gny,  reckless, 
dissipated  fellow,  regarding  his  wealth  as  the  source  from  which 
he  derived  all  his  sensual  pleasures,  and  not  as  a  talent  com- 
mitted to  his  stewurdohip,  of  which  he  must  one  day  give  an 
account. 

"  Sir  Alexander's  early  career,  though  not  worse  than  that 
of  many  young  men  of  the  same  class,  was  unmarked  by  any 
real  moral  worth.  His  elegant  person,  good  taste,  and  graceful 
manners,  won  for  hfm  the  esteem  and  affection  of  those  around 
him.  Frank,  courteous,  and  ever  ready  to  use  his  influence  with 
Sir  Robert,  in  mitigating  the  distress  of  his  poor  tenants,  ho 
was  almost  adored  by  the  lower  classes,  who  looked  up  to  him 
as  to  a  God,  and  by  whom,  in  return,  they  were  treated  with  a 
degree  of  familiarity,  much  beneath  his  dignity  as  a  gentleman. 

"  Prom  this  extravagant,  kind-hearted,  and  popular  young 
man,  Edward  Monctou  contracted  those  habits  that  terminated 
in  his  ruin. 

"  Congeniality  of  mind  strongly  attached  the  cousins  to  each 
other  ;  and  I  am  certain  that  Sir  Alexander  truly  loved  the 
frank,  confiding,  careless  Edward  Moncton,  while  he  equally 
disliked  the  cold,  calculating,  money-getting  propensities  of  his 
brother  Robert.  Robert  possessed  a  disposition  not  likely  to 
forget  or  forgive  a  slight ;  and  he  deeply  resented  the  preference 
shown  to  his  brother  ;  and  his  hatred,  though  carefully  con- 
cealed, was  actively  employed  in  forming  schemes  of  vengeance. 

"  You  well  know,  how  Robert  Moncton  can  hate  ;  the  depths 
of  guile,  and  the  slow,  smooth  words,  with  which  he  can  conceal 
the  muliguity  of  his  nature,  and  hide  the  purposes  of  his  heart. 


THE    M  O  N  (;  T  O  N  fl , 


lie  had  a  game  too  to  piny,  from  which  he  lioped  to  rise  ap  the 
winner  ;  and  to  obtain  tliis  otyect  lie  alternately  flattered  and 
deceived  his  nnconscions  victims. 

"The  particulars  of  your  father's  quarrel  with  Sir  Alexander 
I  never  knew  ;  it  took  place  just  before  the  young  men  left 
college  and  became  their  own  masters  ;  but  it  was  of  such  a 
uature  that  they  parted  in  anger,  never  to  meet  again, 

•'Shortly  after  this  quarrel  old  Sir  Robert  died  ;  and  Alex- 
ander Moiicton  came  in  for  the  estates  and  title.  Your  father 
anl  uncle,  both  being  now  of  age,  entered  upon  the  great  busi- 
ness of  life.  Your  father  resumed  the  business  bequeathed  to 
him  by  his  father,  and  your  uncle  entered  into  partnership  with 
the  firm,  of  which  he  now  stands  the  head  and  sole  proprietor. 

"  Several  years  passed  away.  The  only  intercourse  between 
the  families,  was  through  Sir  Alexander  and  his  cousin  Robert, 
who,  in  spite  of  the  young  Baronet's  aversion,  contrived  to  stick 
to  him  like  a  bur,  until  he  fairly  wriggled  himself  into  his 
favor. 

"  At  thirty.  Sir  Alexander  still  remained  a  bachelor,  and 
seemed  too  general  an  admirer  of  the  sex  to  resign  his  liberty 
to  any  particular  belle. 

"  About  this  period  of  my  story  one  of  Sir  Alexander's 
game-keepers  was  shot  by  a  band  of  poachers,  who  infested  the 
neighborhood.  Richard  North,  the  husband  of  Dinah,  bad 
made  himself  most  obnoxious  to  these  lawless  depredators,  and 
thus  fell  a  victim  to  his  over  zeal. 

"  Sir  Alexander  considered  himself  bonnd  in  honor  to  pro- 
vide for  the  widow  and  her  daughter  of  his  faithful  servant, 
particularly  as  the  former  had  been  left  without  any  means  of 
support.  Both  mother  and  daughter  were  received  into  his 
service — Dinah  as  housekeeper  at  the  Hall,  and  her  daughter 
Rachol  as  upper  chamber-maid. 

"  Dinah,  at  that  period,  was  not  more  than  thirty-four  years 
cf  age,  and  for  a  person  of  her  class,  was  well  educated  and 


1  he  lioped  to  rise  ap  the 
alternately  flattered  and 

arrel  with  Sir  Alexander 
fore  the  young  men  left 
•s  ;  but  it  was  of  such  a 
to  meet  again, 
Robert  died  ;  and  Alex- 
3  and  title.  Your  father 
ered  upon  the  great  biisi- 
;  business  bequeathed  to 
red  into  partnership  with 
lead  and  sole  proprietor, 
only  intercourse  between 
er  and  his  cousin  Robert, 
rcrsion,  contrived  to  stick 
irriggled  himself  into  his 

emained  a  bachelor,  and 
sex  to  resign  his  liberty 

one  of  Sir  Alexander's 
)oachers,  who  infested  the 
husband  of  Dinah,   bad 

lawless  depredators,  and 

bonnd  in  honor  to  pro- 
r  of  his  faithful  servant, 
left  without  any  means  of 
'  were  received  into  his 
3  Hall,  and  her  daughter 

)re  than  thirty-four  years 
i,  was  well  educated  and 


T  II  K     M  O  N  0  T  (>  N  a 


189 


niicomraonly  handsome.    I  sec  you  smile,  Oeoffrcy,  but  such  was 
tile  fact. 

"  Rachel,  wlio  was  just  sixteen,  was  oonsidcreil  a  perfect 
model  of  feinuie  beiiiily,  i)y  all  the  young  fellows  who  kept 
Bachelors'  Hall  with  Sir  Alexander. 

"The  young  Baronet  fell  desperately  in  love  with  his  fair 
dependent,  and  the  girl  and  her  mother  entertained  hopes  that 
he  would  make  her  his  wife. 

"Great  credit  is  due  to  Sir  Alexander,  that  he  never 
attempted  to  seduce  the  girl,  who  was  so  completely  in  liis 
power.  Pride,  however,  hindered  him  from  making  her  Lady 
Moncton.  In  order  to  bre:ik  the  spell  that  bound  him  he  gave 
the  mother  a  pretty  cottage  on  the  estate,  and  a  few  acres  of 
land  rent  free,  and  went  up  to  Loudon  to  forget,  amid  its  gay 
scenes,  the  bright  eyes  that  had  sorely  wounded  his  peace. 

"Dinah  North  was  not  a  woman  likely  to  bear  with  indif 
ence,    the    pangs   (      disappointed    ambition.       She    bitterly 
reproached  her  daughter  for  having  played  her  cards  so  ill, 
and  vowed  vengeance  on  the  proud  lord  of  the  manor,  in  curses 
loud  and  deep. 

"Rachels  character,  though  not  quite  so  harshly  defined,  pos- 
sessed too  much  of  the  malignant  and  vindictive  niiture  of  the 
mother.  She  had  loved  Sir  Alexander  with  all  the  ardor  of  a 
first  youthful  atlnchment.  His  wealth  and  station  were  nothing 
to  her,  it  was  the  man  alone  she  prized.  Hud  he  been  a 
peasant,  she  would  have  loved  as  wannly  and  as  well.  Lost  to 
her  for  ever,  sne  overlooked  the  great  pecuniary  favors  just 
conferred  upon  her  mother  and  herself,  and  only  lived  to  be 
revenged. 

"It  was  while  smarting  under  their  recent  disappointment  that 
these  women  were  sought  out  and  bribed  by  Robert  Moncton 
to  become  his  agents  in  a  deep-laid  conspiracy,  which  he  hoped 
to  carry  out  against  Sir  Alexander  and  his  family. 

"  Robert  Moncton  was  still  unmarried,  and  Dinah  took  the 


clmrj^e  of  his  establisliment,  being  >rreatly  enraged  with   hr 
buuulil'iil  daughter  for  makiiii::  a  niii-awiiy  match  with   ll<)>|«: 
Moniiiigtoii,  Sir  AiexamhT.s  iiiinlsiuaii,  who  was  a  handsomu 
man,  and  tir?  finest  rider  in  the  couiify  of  York. 

After  ait  absence  of  five  years,  Sir  Alexander  snddonly 
rt'turnijd  to  Moncton  Park,  accompanied  by  a  yonng  and  lovely 
bride.  During  that  five  years,  a  great  change  had  taken  place 
in  the  yoinig  liarouet,  who  returned  a  Bincere  CItristiuu  and  an 
altered  iiian. 

"  Devotedly  t'tlached  to  the  virtuous  and  beautiful  lady  whom 
he  had  wisely  chosen  for  his  mate,  the  whole  .study  of  hi.s  life 
WHS  to  please  her,  i  nd  keep  alive  the  tender  afl'ectious  of  the 
noble  heart  he  had  secured. 

"They  loved — as  few  modern  couples  love  :  and  Sir  i*  lexan- 
dcr's  friends — and  he  had  many — deeply  sympathized  m  his 
liappiness. 

"  Two  beings  alone  upon  his  estate  viewed  his  felicity  with 
jealous  and  malignant  eyes — two  beings,  who,  from  their  lowly 
and  ilependent  situations,  you  would  have  thought  incapable  of 
marring-  the  happiness  which  excited  their  envy.  Dinah  North 
had  been  reconciled  to  her  daughter,  ami  they  occupied  the 
huntsman's  lodge,  a  beautiful  cottage  witliin  the  precincts  of  the 
park.  Dinah  had  secretly  vowed  vengeance  on  the  man  who, 
from  principle,  had  saved  her  child  from  tiie  splendid  shame  the 
avuiLciouH  mother  coveted.  She  was  among  the  first  to  o2Fer 
her  services,  and  those  of  her  daughter,  to  Lady  Moncton. 
The  pie^^^ty  young  wife  of  the  huntsman  attracted  the  attention 
of  the  lady  of  be  Uall,  and  she  employed  her  const(>  tly  about 
her  person,  while  in  cases  of  sickness,  for  she  ^  iU,  very  fiagile, 
Dinah  officiated  as  nurse. 

"  A  year  passed  away,  and  the  lady  of  the  maTior  and  the  w'fe 
01  the  lowly  hunisman  were  both  looking  forward  with  anxious 
expectation  to  the  bii  th  of  their  first-born. 

"At  midnight,  on  the   10th  of  October,   1304,  an  heir  was 


0  N 


T  H  G     M  O  N  C  T  0  N  8  . 


HI 


greatly  CHrajvcd  with   hr 
ii-iiwiiy  iiiiitcli  Willi   lloj^e: 
iiaii,  who  waK  u  liandsumu 
ty  of  York. 

"I,  Sir  Aloxaiitlcr  suddnily 
uind  by  a  young  mid  lovoly 
eat  change  had  taken  plitoo 

u  BJiiccre  Ohristiuu  and  au 

lus  and  beautiful  lady  whom 
the  whole  study  of  his  life 
Lhe  tender  afi'eelious  of  the 

pies  love  :  and  Sir  /  lexan- 
-deeply  syiu|iathizcd  in  his 

ite  viftwe<l  his  felicity  with 
iugs,  who,  from  tiicir  lowly 
.  have  thought  incapable  of 
i  their  envy.  Dinah  North 
er,  and  they  occupied  the 
i  witliin  the  precincts  of  the 
engeance  on  the  man  who, 
rom  tiie  splendid  shame  the 
IS  among  the  first  to  o2fer 
u^^hter,  to  Lady  Moncton. 
nan  attracted  the  attention 
!)loyed  her  coiisti'  tly  about 
88,  for  she  '•  as  very  fiagile, 

7  of  the  naaiior  and  the  w'fe 

loking  forcard  with  anxious 

t--born. 

)ctobcT,   1304,  an  heir  was 


given  to  the  proud  house  of  Moncton  ;  o  weak,  delicate,  puny 
babe,  who  nearly  cost  his  mother  her  life.  At  the  same  iiour 
in  the  humble  cottage  at  the  entrance  of  that  rich  domain,  your 
poor  friend,  George  Harrison  (or  Philip  Mornington,  which  is 
my  real  imnie)  was  launched  upon  the  stormy  ocean  of  life." 

At  this  part  of  Harrison's  narrative  I  fell  back  upon  my 
pillow  and  groaned  heavily. 

George  flew  to  ray  assistance,  raising  me  in  his  arms  and 
sj-riiikling  my  face  with  water. 

"  Are  you  ill,  dear  Geoffrey  ?" 

"  Not  ill,  George,  but  grieved — sick  at  heart,  that  you  shcdd 
be  grandson  to  that  dreadful  old  hag," 

"  We  cannot  choose  our  parentage,"  said  George,  sorrow- 
fully. "  The  station  in  which  we  are  born,  constitutes  fate  in 
this  world  ;  it  is  the  only  thing  pertaining  to  mao  over  which 
his  will  has  no  control.  We  can  destroy  our  own  lives,  but  our 
birth  is  entirely  in  the  hands  of  Providence.  Could  I  have 
ordered  it  otherwise,  I  certainly  should  have  chosen  a  different 
mother," 

He  smiled  mournfully,  and  bidding  me  to  lie  down  and  keep 
quif^t,  resumed  his  tale. 

"The  delicate  state  of  Lady  Moncton's  health  precluded  her 
from  nursing  her  child  ;  my  mother  wa^  cliwen  as  aubstiti  W), 
and  the  weakly  infant  was  entrusted  to  her  care,  '''tie  noble 
mother  was  delighted  with  the  attention  that  Rachel  bestowed 
upon  the  child,  and  loaded  her  with  presents.  As  to  me — I 
was  given  into  Dinah's  charge,  who  felt  small  remorse  in 
depriving  me  of  my  natural  food,  if  anything  in  the  shape  of 
money  was  to  be  gained  by  the  sacrifice.  The  physicians 
recommended  change  of  air  for  Lady  Moncton's  health.  Sir 
Alexander  fixed  on  Italy  as  the  climate  mo.st  likely  to  benefit 
Lis  ailing  and  beloved  wife. 

"  My  mother  was  offered  large  sums  to  accompany  them, 
which    she    steadfastly  declined.     Lady   Moncton    wept    and 


■' 


149 


T  II  K      M  ()  N  0  T  O  N  8  , 


eutrpatcd,  but  Uudiel  Mnriiin<;ton  wr.«  rcRolutc  in  hor  refusal. 
'  No  nioiu«y,'  h\w  Hiiid,  '  should  tcinpt  lior  to  desert  her  liii^hand 
and  cliihl,  iniich  as  sho  wished  to  ohlif^e  liiuly  Moiictoti.' 

"  Tlie  iiifuiit  heir  of  Moiictou  wiis  tliriviiijf  under  her  caro,  and 
Rlie  seemed  to  love  the  baby,  if  possihle,  better  than  she  did  her 
own.  Sir  Alexander  and  the  pliysician  persuaded  Liuly  iMonc- 
ton,  thou!,'h  she  yielded  most  reluctantly  to  their  wishes,  to 
overcome  her.  maternal  solicitude,  and  leave  her  child  witL  Ids 
heaitliy  and  affectionate  nurse. 

"  She  parted  from  the  infant  with  many  tears,  bestowing  upon 
Inm  the  most  passionate  caresses,  and  pathetically  urging  Rachel 
Mornington  not  to  neglect  the  important  duties  she  had 
solemnly  promis    '  to  perform. 

"  Three  months  had  scarcely  elapsed  before  the  young  heir  of 
Moncton  was  consigned  to  the  family  vault ;  and  Sir  Alexander 
and  hia  wife  were  duly  apprised  by  Robert  Moncton,  who  was 
solicitor  for  the  family,  of  tiie  melancholy  event, 

"That  this  child  did  not  come  fairly  by  his  death  I  have 
strong  reasons  for  suspecting,  from  various  conversations  which 
I  OTerhesrd  when  a  child,  pass  between  Robert  Moncton, 
Dinah  North,  and  my  mother. 

"  The  news  of  their  son's  death,  as  may  well  be  imagined,  was 
received  by  Sir  Alexander  and  Lady  Moncton  with  the  most 
poignant  grief;  and  six  years  elapsed  before  she  and  her 
husband  revisited  Moncton  Park. 

"  My  mother  was  just  recovering  trora  her  confinement  with 
a  lovely  little  girl— the  Alice,  to  whom  you  have  often  heard 
me  allude— when  Sir  Alexander  and  Lady  Moncton  arrived  at 
the  Hail.  They  brought  with  them  a  delicate  and  beautiful 
infant  of  three  months  old. 

"I  can  well  rememl>er  Lady  Moncton's   first   visit  to   the 
Lodge,  to  learn  from  my  mother's  own  lips  the  nature  of  the 
disease  which  had  consigned  her  son  to  his  early  grave. 
"  I  recollect  my  mother  telling  her  that  the  little  George  weuti 


S  H  , 


THE     M  0  .V  C  T  0  N  3  , 


143 


1  rcRolntc  ill  hor  refusal. 
i!r  to  desert  her  liu^band 
I  liiidy  Moiicton.' 
iviiijf  iiikUt  lu!r  car(%  and 
i,  better  than  she  did  lier 
1  persuaded  Liuly  Monc- 
ntly  to  their  wislios,  to 
leave  her  child  witL  Ids 

,ny  tears,  Ijcstowing  upon 
athctically  iirjjing  Rachel 
portaiit   duties   slio    had 

before  the  younjf  heir  of 
ault ;  and  Sir  Alexander 
obert  Moneton,  who  was 
»ly  event, 

riy  by  liifi  death  I  have 
rious  conversations  which 
tween  Robert   Moneton, 

nay  well  be  imagined,  was 
Moneton  with  the  most 
scd  before  she   and  her 

rora  her  confinement  with 

im  yon  have  often  heard 

Lady  Moneton  arrived  at 

a  delicate  and  beautiful 

icton's   first  visit  to  the 
vn  lips  the  nature  of  the 
0  his  early  grave. 
;hat  the  little  George  weu« 


to  bed  in  porfeet  hculth,  and  died  in  a  (it  during  the  niglik, 

itcfore  iiicdical  aid  from  the  town  of  could  be  procured. 

Shi!  .sluul  iioiue  turn's  wliiio  Hhe  said  this,  and  assured  Lady 
Moneton  tiuit  the  l)al)y'a  deatii  liad  occasioned  her  as  mueli 
grief  as  if  he  had  been  iier  own.  That  siie  would  much  rather 
that  I  hud  died  tiian  her  dear  nurse-child. 

"  I  remember,  as  I  leant  agaiirjt  Dinah  North's  knees,  tliink- 
iug  this  very  hard  of  my  mother,  and  wondering  why  she  should 
prefer  Lady  Moneton's  son  to  me.  Dut,  from  whatever  cause 
her  aversion  spra(  g,  she  certainly  never  had  any  maternal  regard 
for  me. 

"Lady  Moneton  drew  me  to  her,  and  with  her  sweet,  fair 
face  iinlhed  in  tears,  told  my  motlier  that  I  was  a  beautiful  boy 
— that  her  darling  would  have  been  just  my  age  and  size,  and 
that  she  could  not  help  envying  her  her  child.  She  patted  my 
curly  head,  and  kissed  me  repeatedly,  and  said  that  I  must 
come  often  to  the  Hall  and  see  her,  and  she  would  give  mo 
pretty  toys  and  teach  me  to  read. 

"  Ah,  how  I  loved  her  I  Her  kind,  gentle  voice  was  the  first 
music  I  ever  heard.  IIow  I  loved  to  sit  at  her  feet  when  she 
came  to  the  cottage,  and  look  up  into  her  pale,  calm  face  ; 
and  when  she  stooped  down  to  kiss  me,  and  her  glossy  ringlets 
mingled  with  mine,  I  would  fling  my  arms  about  her  slender 
neck,  and  whisper  in  a  voice  too  low  for  my  stern  mother  and 
Dinah  to  hear  : — 

"  '  I  love  you  a  thousand,  thousand  times  better  than  any- 
thing else  in  the  world.  Oh,  how  1  wish  I  were  your  owu  little 
boy.' 

"Then  the  bright  tears  would  flow  fast  down  her  marble 
v>heeks,  and  she  would  sigh  so  deeply,  as  she  returned  with 
interest  my  childish  passionate  caresses. 

"Ah,  Geoffrey,  my  childish  heart  spoke  the  trnth — I  loved 
that  high-born,  noble  woman  better  than  I  have  since  loved 
aught  in  this  cold,  bad  world— at  least,  my  affection  for  her  wai 
of  a  purer,  holier  character. 


5 


■f*^ 


■tJ"^ 


144 


TH  R     U  O  V  CT  0  M  S. 


"  My  tnothor  wns  tukon  lioiiu'  to  tho  Hull,  to  nt-t  as  wet  niirso 
to  little  MiirKuret  ;  and  1  rciuniiuMl  at  the  c'Ottu},'o  willi  my 
bnr»li,  cross  grandinotluT,  who  beat  mc  witliout  tho  slightest 
remorse  for  the  iiioBt  trilling  f'aultH,  often  cursing  and  wishing 
mc  dead,  in  tho  most  malignant  nninner. 

"  My  father,  whom  I  sehlom  saw,  for  hia  occupation  took 
hira  often  from  home,  which  was  rendered  too  hot  for  comfort, 
by  the  temper  of  his  mother-in-law,  was  invarial)ly  kind  to  mc 
When  ho  came  in  from  tho  stables  he  wouhl  tell  me  funny 
Btories,  and  sing  me  jolly  hunting  songs  ;  and  what  I  liked  still 
better,  would  give  mc  a  ride  before  him  on  the  line  hunters  Ik; 
had  under  his  care  ;  promising  that  when  I  was  old  enough,  1 
ghouhl  take  them  airing  round  the  park,  instead  of  him. 

"My  poor  father  I  lean  see  him  before  mo  now,  with  his 
frank,  good-natured  face,  and  laughing  blue  eyes  ;  his  stalwart 
figure,  arrayed  in  his  green  velvet  hunting  coat,  buckskin 
breeches  and  top  boots  ;  and  the  leather  cap,  rouml  wliicli  his 
nut-brown  hair  clustered  in  thick  curls ;  and  which  he  wore  so 
jauntily  on  one  side  of  his  head.  Roger  Moriiiugtou  was  quite 
a  dandy  in  his  way,  and  had  belonged  to  a  good  old  stock  ; 
but  his  father  ran  away  when  a  boy,  and  went  to  sea,  and  dis- 
graced his  aristocratic  friends  ;  and  Roger  used  to  say,  that  he 
had  all  tho  gentlemanly  propensities,  minus  the  cash. 

"  Ho  doated  upon  mc.  '  His  dear  little  jockey  1'  as  ho  used 
to  call  ine  ;  and  I  always  ran  out  to  meet  him  when  ho  canio 
botne,  with  loud  shouts  of  joy.  But  there  came  a  night,  when 
Roger  Moruington  did  not  return  ;  and  several  days  pu.sscd 
away,  and  he  was  at  length  found  dead  in  a  lonely  part  of  tho 
park.  The  high-spirited  horse  he  rode,  had  thrown  him,  and  his 
neck  was  broken  by  the  fall — and  the  horse  not  returning  to  tho 
Btables,  but  niaklMg  off  to  the  high  road,  no  alarm  hfid  been 
excited  at  tiie  absence  of  his  rider. 

"  My  mother  was  sincerely  grieved  for  hio  death  ;  he  was  a 
kind,  indulgent  husband  to  her  ;  and  it  was  the  first  severe  pang 
of  sorrow  that  my  young  heart  had  ever  known. 


■»^ 


0  N  B. 


T  M 


M  0  N  C  T  0  N  g  , 


145 


0  finll,  to  net  as  wet  niirs«i 

1  at  the  cottuge  with  rn)' 
mc  witliout  tho  aliglitest, 

often  cul•^sillg  and  wisliiu); 
ii-r. 

,  for  his  occupation  tooi< 
lered  too  hot  for  comfort, 
was  invurialdy  kind  to  nic 
he  wouhl  ti'll  nie  funny 
if^H  ;  and  what  I  liked  Htill 
him  on  tiu;  tine  iiuntd'H  \w 

wiien  I  was  old  enough,  I 
Ilk,  instead  of  him. 
;  before  rao  now,  with  liis 
\g  blue  eyes  ;  his  atuhvnrt 
I  hunting  coat,  buckskin 
atlier  cap,  rouiul  wliicli  his 
i-ls  ;  and  which  he  wore  so 
iger  Moruingtou  was  quite 
;ed  to  a  good  old  slock  ; 
,  and  went  to  sea,  and  dis- 
Iloger  used  to  say,  that  he 
minus  the  cash. 
'  little  jockey  !'  as  ho  used 
)  meet  him  when  ho  came 
;  there  came  a  night,  when 
and  several  days  pu,ssed 
ead  in  a  lonely  part  of  tho 
le,  had  thrown  him,  and  his 
I  horse  not  returning  to  the 

roud,  no  alarm  hrul  been 

1  for  hio  death  ;  he  was  a 
it  was  the  first  severe  paug 
iver  known. 


"  Tho  day  after  hi.i  funcTal,  I  was  fitting  crying  beside  the 
Arc,  holding  my  untaHlcd  breakfiist  on  my  knee. 

"  '  Don't  take  on  so,  child,'  said  n.y  mother,  wiping  the  team 
from  her  own  eyes.  '  All  tho  tears  in  tho  world  won't  bring 
nack  the  dead.' 

"  '  And  will  dear  daddy  never  come  home  again  ?'  I  sobbed. 
'  Ah,  1  have  no  one  to  lovo  mo  now,  but  the  deat  good  lady  up 
at  the  Hall  1' 

•"Don't  I  lovo  you,  Philip?' 

"  '  No  !'  I  replied,  sorrowfully,  "  you  don't  lovo  mc,  and  you 
never  d'd.' 

"  '  How  do  you  know  that  ?' 

"  '  Because  you  never  kiss  mc,  and  take*  mo  np  In  your  lap,  aa 
Lady  Moncton  docs,  and  look  at  mo  with  kind  eyes,  and  call  mo 
your  dear  boy.  No,  no,  when  1  come  for  you  to  love  me,  you 
push  me  away,  and  cry  nng'."ily,  '  Get  away,  you  little  pest  I 
don't  trouble  me  !'  and  grandmother  is  always  cursing  me,  and 
wishing  me  dead.     Do  you  call  thnt  love  ?' 

"  I  never  shall  forget  the  ghastly  smile  thnt  played  around 
her  beautiful  stern  mouth,  as  sho  said  unconsciously,  uloi-.d  to 
herself: 

"  '  It  is  not  the  child,  but  the  voice  of  God,  that  speaks 
through  him.    How  can  I  expect  him  to  love  me  ?' 

"  flow  I  wondered  what  she  meant.  For  years  that  myste- 
rious sentence  haunted  my  dreams. 

"  I  was  soon  called  to  endnre  a  heavier  grief.  Lady  Mone 
ton's  health  daily  declined.  She  grew  worse — was  no  longer 
able  to  go  out  in  the  carriage,  and  the  family  physician  went 
past  our  house  many  times  during  the  day,  on  his  way  to  tho 
Hall, 

"  Old  Dinah  and  my  mother  were  constantly  absent  attend- 
ing upon  the  sick  lady,  and  I  was  left  in  charge  of  a  poor  womau 
who  came  over  to  the  cottage  to  clean  tho  house,  and  take  care 
of  little  Alice,  while  my  mother  was  away. 


I 


■ 


*''' 


"  One  (lay  my  mother  came  hastily  in.  She  was  flushed  with 
waliiiiig  fust,  and  seemed  much  agitated.  She  seized  upon  me, 
washed  my  face  and  hands,  and  began  dressing  me  in  my  Sunday 
kuit. 

"  '  A  strange  whim  this,  in  a  dying  woman,'  she  said,  to  the 
neighbor,  '  to  have  sucli  a  craze  for  seeing  other  people's 
children.     Giving  all  this  trouble  for  nothing.' 

"  After  a  good  deal  of  pushing  and  shaking  she  dragged  mo 
off  with  her  to  the  Hall,  and  I  was  introduced  into  the  solemn 
Btate  ch  mber,  where  my  kind  and  noble  friend  was  calmly 
breathing  iier  last. 

"  Ah,  Geoffrey,  how  well  I  can  recall  that  parting  hour,  and 
the  deep  impressioiv  it  made  on  my  mind.  There,  beneath  tliat 
sumptuous  canopy,  Iny  the  young,  the  beautiful — still  beautiful 
in  death,  with  Heaven's  own  smile  lighted  upon  her  pale  serene 
face.  God  had  set  his  holy  seal  upon  her  brow.  The  Merciful, 
who  delighteth  in  mercy,  had  marked  her  for  his  own. 

"  Ah,  what  a  fearful  contrast  to  that  angelic  face  was  the  dark 
fierce  countenance  of  Dinah  North,  scowling  down  upon  the 
expiring  saint,  and  holding  in  her  arms  the  sinless  babe  of  that 
sweet  mother. 

"  Rachel  Mornington's  proud  handsome  features  wore  their 
usual  stern  expression,  but  her  face  was  very  pale,  and  her  lips 
firmly  compressed.  She  held,  or  rather  grasped  me  by  the  hand, 
as  she  led  me  up  to  the  bed. 

"  '  Is  that  my  little  Philip  V  said  the  dying  woman  in  her  usual 
sweet  tone."  But  the  voice  was  so  enfeebled  by  disease  as  to  be 
only  just  audible." 

"  '  It  is  my  son,  my  lady,'  replied  Rachel,  and  her  voice  slightly 
faltered. 

" '  What  says  my  love  ?'  asked  Sir  Alexander,  raising  his  head 
from  the  bed-clothes  in  which  his  face  had  been  buried  to  fonceal 
his  tears. 

"  •  Lift  the  boy  up  to  me,  dearest  Alick,  that  I  my  kiss  him 
once  more  before  I  die.' 


m 


iiilififli 


CTONS, 


THt     M0NCT0N9. 


147 


»tily  in.  She  was  flushed  with 
fitated.  She  seized  upon  me, 
gau  dressing  me  iu  uiy  Sunday 

ying  woman,'  she  said,  to  the 
ze  for  seeing  other  people's 
for  nothing.' 

and  shaking  she  dragged  mo 
18  introduced  into  the  solemn 
and  noble  friend  was  calmly 

recall  that  parting  hour,  and 
y  mind.  There,  beneath  tliat 
,  the  beautiful — still  beautiful 
I  lighted  upon  her  pale  serene 
ipon  her  brow.  The  Merciful, 
ked  her  for  his  own. 

that  angelic  face  was  the  dark 
rth,  scowling  down  upon  the 

arms  the  sinless  babe  of  that 

handsome  features  wore  their 
ice  was  very  pale,  and  her  lips 
ather  grasped  me  by  the  hand, 

d  the  dying  woman  in  her  usual 
io  enfeebled  by  disease  as  to  be 

1  Rachel,  and  her  voice  slightly 

Sir  Alexander,  raising  his  head 
ace  had  been  buried  to  conceal 

.rest  Alick,  that  I  my  kiss  him 


"  Sir  Alexander  lifted  me  into  the  bed  beside  her,  and  raised 
her  up  gently  with  his  other  arm,  so  that  both  she  and  I  were 
encircled  in  his  embrace.  My  young  heart  beat  audibly.  I 
heard  Lady  Moncton  whisper  to  her  husband, 

"  *  Alexander,  he  is  your  child.  Ah,  do  not  deny  it  now.  Yon 
know,  I  love  yon  too  well  to  be  jealous  of  you.  Just  tell  me 
the  honest  truth  ?' 

"  A  crimson  glow  spread  over  her  husband's  face,  as,  in  the  same 
linrried  whisper,  he  replied,  'Dearest  Emilia,  the  likeness  is 
purely  accidental.  I  pledge  to  you  my  solemn  word,  that  he 
is  not  my  son.' 

The  poor  lady  looked  doubtingly  in  his  face.  I  saw,  a  bitter 
scornful  smile  pass  over  the  rigid  features  of  my  mother  ;  whilst 
I,  foolish  child,  was  flattered  with  the  presumption  that  I  might 
possibly  be  Sir  Alexander's  son. 

"  '  Do  not  cry  Philip,  my  darling  boy  1'  said  T,ndy  Moncton, 
holding  me  close  to  her  breast.  '  Sir  Alexander  will  be  a  father 
to  yon  for  my  sake.  I  am  very  happy  my  dear  child  ;  I  am  going 
to  Heaven,  where  my  own  sweet  baby  went  before  me  ;  I  shall 
meet  him  there.  Be  a  good  boy,  and  love  your  mother,  and 
your  pretty  little  sister  ;  and  above  all,  my  dear  child,  love  your 
Saviour,  who  can  lead  you  through  the  dark  valley  of  the  shadow 
of  death,  as  gently  as  he  is  now  leading  me.  Should  you  live  to 
be  a  man,'  she  added  faintly,  '  remember  this  hour,  and  the  lady 
who  loved  and  adopted  you  as  her  son.' 

"Then  turning  slowly  towards  her  husband,  she  wound  her  thin 
transparent  hands  about  his  neck  ;  breathed  a  few  words  of  love 
in  his  ear,  nnhenrd  by  aught  save  him  and  me  ;  and  reclining 
her  meek  pale  face  upon  his  manly  breast,  expired  without  a 

struggle. 

"  A  deep  solemn  pause  succeeded.  I  was  too  awestruck  to 
weep.  The  deep  convulsive  sobs  tl\at  bnrst  from  the  heart  of 
the  bereaved  husband  warned  intruders  to  retire.  My  mother 
led  me  from  the  chamber  of  death,  and  we  took  our  way  in 


J 


1 


148 


THB     HONCTONB. 


1- 1 :  iJS 


silence  across  the  park  ;  the  solemn  toll  of  the  death-bell  floated 
through  its  beautiful  glades. 

"  '  Motlier,'  I  said  ;  clinging  to  her  dress.     '  What  is  that  ?' 

" '  The  voice  of  death,  Philip.  Did  you  not  hear  that  bell 
toll  for  your  father.  It  will  one  day  toil  f«)r  me— for  you — for 
all.' 

" '  How  I  wish,  mother,  that  thai  day  would  soon  come.' 

" '  Silly  boy  I     Do  you  wish  us  all  dead  V 

"  '  Not  you  mother,  nor  granny.  You  may  both  live  as  lopj  as 
you  like.  But  when  it  tolls  for  me,  I  shall  be  in  Heaven  with 
dear  Lady  Moncton.' 

"Rachel  started,  stopped  suddenly,  and  fixed  upon  me  a 
mournful  gaze — the  only  glauce  of  terdcrucss  that  ever  beamed 
upon  me  from  those  brilliant,  stern  eyes. 

"  '  Poor  child — you  may  have  your  wish  gratified  only  too 
soon.  Did  Robert  Moncton  or  Dinah  Nortii  know  of  your 
existence,  the  green  sod  would  not  lie  long  unfiled  upon  your 
bead.  You  think  I  do  not  love  you,  Philip !'  she  cried,  passion- 
ately— '  I  do,  I  do,  my  poor  ciiild.  I  have  saved  your  life, 
thoagh  you  think  me  so  cross  and  stern.' 

"She  knelt  down  beside  mc  on  the  grass,  flung  her  arms 
round  me,  and  pressed  nie  convulsively  to  her  bosom,  whilst  big 
bright  tears  fell  fast  over  my  wondering  countenance. 

"  '  Mother,'  I  sobbed,  '  I  do  love  you  sometimes — always, 
when  you  speak  kindly  to  me,  as  you  do  now  ;  and  I  love  dear 
little  Alice- -ah,  so  much  I  my  heart  is  full  of  love — I  cannot 
tell  you  how  much.' 

"  Rachel  redoubled  her  wet-ping — a  step  scunded  behind  us — 
she  sprang  to  her  feet,  as  Dinah  North,  with  the  little  Margaret 
Moncton  in  her  arms,  joined  us. 

" '  What  are  you  doing  there,  Rachel  ?'  growled  forth  the 
hard-hearted  woman.  '  Are  you  saying  your  prayers,  or  admir- 
ing the  beauty  of  your  son.  Hang  the  boy  !  though  he  is  your 
child,  I  never  can  feel  the  least  interest  in  him  I' 


J 


INS. 

)1I  of  the  death-bell  floated 

dress.     '  Wliat  is  that  ?' 
id  jou  not  bear  that  bell 
'  toil  f<)r  me— for  you — for 

lay  would  soon  come.' 
lead  V 

ou  may  both  live  as  Iopj  as 
I  shall  be  in  Heaven  with 

ly,  and  fixed  upon  me  a 
ndcrucss  that  ever  beamed 
es. 

ir  wish  gratified  only  too 
iiah  Nortli  know  of  your 
ie  long  unfiled  upon  your 
Philip !'  she  cried,  possiou- 
I  have  saved  your  life, 
rn.' 

the  grass,  flung  her  arms 
y  to  her  bosom,  whilst  big 
ng  countenance. 
!  you  sometimes — always, 
do  now  ;  and  I  love  dear 
is  full  of  love — I  cannot 

step  sounded  behind  us — 
li,  with  the  little  Margaret 

,chcl  ?'  growled  forth  the 
ig  your  prayers,  or  admir- 
le  boy  !  though  he  is  your 
it  iu  him  I' 


THB     M  OKCTOKS. 


149 


J 


*•  •  Is  that  his  fault  or  yonra  ?'  said  my  mother,  coldly. 

'"Ah,  mine,  of  course,'  returned  Dinah,  bitterly.  '  We  are 
not  accountable  for  our  likes  or  dislikes.     I  hate  the  boy  1' 

"  I  looked  at  her  with  defiance  in  my  eyes,  and  she  answered 
my  loot  with  a  sharp  blow  on  the  cheek.  '  Don't  look  at  me, 
young  dog,  in  that  insolent  way.  I  have  tamed  prouder  spirits 
than  yours,  and  I'll  tame  yours  yet.' 

"  My  mother  gave  her  an  angry  glance,  bat  said  nothing,  and 
we  walked  slowly  on.     At  last  Dinah  turned  to  her  and  said  : 

"  '  Rr,chel,  this  should  be  a  proud  and  joyful  day  to  you.' 

"  '  In  what  respect,  mother  ?' 

"  '  Your  rival's  dead  ;  you  have  gained  your  liberty,  and  Sir 
Alexander  is  free  to-choose  another  wife.  Do  you  understand 
mc  now  V 

"  '  Perfectly ;  but  that  dream  is  past,'  said  my  mother, 
mournfully.  '  Sir  Alexandei'  loved  that  dead  angel  too  well,  to 
place  a  woman  of  my  low  degree  in  her  place.  If  he  did  not 
unite  his  destiny  to  mine  when  I  was  young  and  beautiful,  and 
he  in  the  romance  of  life,  don't  flatter  yourself  into  the  belief 
that  he  will  do  it  now.     I  know  human  nature  better.' 

"  '  You  don't  know  your  own  power,'  said  Dinah  ;  '  beauty  is 
stronger  than  rank  and  fortune,  and  yon  are  still  handsome 
enough  to  do  a  deal  of  mischief  among  the  men,  if  you  only  set 
about  it  in  the  rig  it  way.' 

"  '  Peace,  mother  I  I  need  none  of  your  teaching.  I  learned 
to  love  Mornington,  and  ceased  to  love  Sir  Alexander.  Nay,  ( 
am  really  sorry  for  the  death  of  poor  Lady  Moncton,  and  should 
despise  her  husband  if  he  could  forget  her  for  one  like  me.' 

"  '  Fool  I  idiot  I'  exclaimed  Dinah,  in  a  tone  of  exasperation. 
*  You  have  ever  stood  in  the  way  of  your  own  fortune.  Had 
you  not  been  so  over  squeamish  you  might  have  changed  the 
children,  and  made  your  own  son  the  heir  of  the  Moncton. 
Had  I  been  at  home,  this  surely  would  have  been  done.  This 
was  ali  the  good  I  got  by  leaving  you  to  the  guidance  of  a 
handsome,  good-natured  fool  like  Mornington.' 


i 


i 


160 


THK  MONCTONS. 


"  '  Mother,  speak  more  respectfully  of  the  dead,'  said  Rachel. 
'  He  was  good,  at  any  rate,  which  we  art  not.  It  was  my 
intention  to  have  c'.:anged  the  children,  but  God  ordered  it 
otherwise,'  she  continued,  with  a  convulsive  lauf;;h.  '  However, 
I  have  had  my  revenge,  but  it  has  cost  me  many  a  blighting 
thought.' 

"  '  I  don't  understand  you,'  said  Dinah,  drawing  close  up 
before  us,  and-  fixing  a  keen  lock  of  inquiry  on  her  daughter. 

"  •  Nor  do  I  mean  that  you  should,'  coldly  retorted  Rachel. 
•My  secret  is  worth  keeping.  You  will  know  it  or 3  day  too 
soon.' 

"  We  had  now  reached  home,  and  the  presence  of  the  strange 
woman  put  an  end  to  this  mysterious  conversation.  Though  only 
a  boy  of  eight  years  old,  it  struck  me  as  so  remarkable,  that  I 
never  could  forget  it  ;  and  now,  when  years  have  gone  over  me, 
I  can  distinctly  recall  every  word  and  look  that  passed  between 
those  sinful  women.    Alas,  that  one  should  have  been  so  near 

to  me. 

"  But  yon  are  sleepy,  Geoffrey.  The  rest  of  my  mournful  his- 
tory will  help  to  wile  away  the  tedium  of  the  long  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

OROROG    HARRISON     CONTINUES  HIS  HISTOIiy. 

"Thr  sorrows  of  my  childhood  were  great,"  continued 
George,  "  but  still  they  were  counterbalanced  by  many  joys. 
In  spite  of  the  disadvantages  under  which  I  labored,  my  gay, 
elastic  spirit  surmounted  them  all. 

"Naturally  fearless  and  fond  of  adventure,  I  never  shrunk 
from  difficulties,  but  felt  a  chivalrous  pride  in  endeavoring  to 
overcome  them.    If  I  could  not  readily  do  this  at  the  moment, 


J 


« s. 


TBG     UONCTONS. 


161 


f  the  dead,'  said  Rachel. 
ve  are  not.  It  was  my 
en,  but  God  ordered  it 
Isive  lau<;;h.  '  However, 
ist  me  many  a  blightiug 

Unah,  drawing  close  up 
uiry  on  her  daughter. 
'  coldly  retorted  Rachel, 
ill  know  it  or  3  day  too 

le  presence  of  the  strange 
nversatioa.  Though  only 
as  so  remarkable,  that  I 
^ears  have  gone  over  me, 
look  that  passed  between 
should  have  been  so  near 

i  rest  of  my  mournful  his- 
of  the  long  to-morrow." 


XVI. 


a  HI3  HISTOIiy. 


were  great,"  continued 
rbalaiiced  by  many  joys, 
vhich  I  labored,  my  gay, 

Iveutnre,  I  never  shrunk 

pride  in  endeavoring  to 

ly  do  this  at  the  moment, 


I  liyed  on  in  the  hope  that  the  day  would  arrive  when  by  perse- 
verance and  energy,  I  should  ultimately  conquer. 

"  I  have  lived  to  p/ove  that  of  which  I  early  felt  a  proud 
conviction  ;  that  it  is  no  easy  matter  for  a  wicked  person,  let 
him  be  eVer  so  clever  and  cunning,  to  subdue  a  strong  mind,  that 
dares  to  be  true  to  itself. 

"  Dinali  North  felt  my  superiority  even  as  a  chilo,  and  the 
mortifyuig  coiisciousness  increased  her  hatred.  She  feared  the 
.  lofty  spirit  of  the  \my  that  her  tyrannical  temper  could  not 
tame  ;  who  laughed  at  her  threats,  and  defied  her  malice,  and 
who,  when  free<l  from  her  control,  enjoyed  the  sweets  of  liberty 
in  a  tenfold  degree, 

"  Sir  Alexander  put  me  to  a  school  in  the  neighborhood, 
where  I  learned  the  first  rudiments  of  my  mother  tongue,  writ- 
ing, reading,  and  simple  arithmetic. 

"The  school  closed  at  half-past  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon; 
when  I  returned  to  the  Lodge,  for  so  the  cottage  was  called  ia 
which  we  resided,  and  which  stood  just  within  the  park  at  the  head 
of  the  noble  avenue  of  old  oaks  and  elms  that  led  to  the  Hall. 

"Two  of  the  loveliest,  sweetest  children  nature  ever  formed  were 
always  at  the  Park  gates  watching  for  my  coming,  when  they  ran 
to  meet  me  with  exclamations  of  delight,  and  we  wandered  forth 
hand  in  hand  to  look  for  wild  fruit  and  flowers  among  the  bosky 
dells  and  romantic  uplands  of  that  enchanting  spot. 

"  Alice  Momington  and  Margaretta  Moncton  were  nearly 
the  same  age,  born  at  least  within  three  months  of  each  other, 
and  were  six  years  younger  than  I. 

"Strikingly  different  in  their  complexion,  appearance  and 
dirposition,  the  two  little  girls  formed  a  beautiful  contrast  to 
each  other. 

"  Alice  was  exquisitely  fair,  with  large,  brilliant,  blue  eyes., 
like  my  poor  mother's,  and  long  silken  ringlets  of  sunny  hair  which 
curled  naturally  upon  her  snow-white  shoulders.  She  was  tall 
and  stately  for  her  age,  and  might  have  been  a  princess,  for  the 


152 


THE     1IONCTON9. 


i      "1 


'     I  ■ 


noble  dignity   of  her  carriage  wonld   not  hare  disgraced  s 

court. 

"  She  was  all  life  and  spirit.  The  first  in  erery  sport,  the 
last  to  yield  to  fatigue  or  satiety.  Her  passions  were  warm  and 
headstrong  ;  her  temper  irritable  ;  her  affections  intense  and 
constant,  and  her  manners  so  frank  and  winning  that  while  con- 
scious that  she  had  a  thousand  faults,  you  could  but  admire  and 

love  her. 

"A  stranger  might  have  thought  her-capricioos,  but  her 
love  of  variety  arose  more  from  the  exuberance  of  her  fancy 
than  from  any  love  of  change.  She  was  a  fair  and  happy  child, 
the  idol  of  her  fond  brother's  heart,  till  one  baneful  passion 
marrpd  what  God  and  nature  made  so  beautiful. 

"  Margaret  Moncton,  outwardly,  was  less  gifted  than  Alice 
Mornington,  but  she  far  surpassed  her  foster-sister  in  mental 
endowments.  Her  stature  was  small,  almost  diminutive.  Her 
features  neither  regular  nor  handsome  except  the  dark  eyes,  the 
beauty  of  which  I  think  I  never  saw  surpassed. 

"  Her  complexion  was  pure  but  very  pale,  and  her  lofty, 
thoughtful  brow  wore  a  serious  expression  from  infancy.  In 
our  wildest  revels  on  the  green  sward,  you  seldom  heard  Mar- 
garet laugh  ;  but  when  pleased,  she  had  a  most  bewitching 
smile,  which  lighted  up  her  calm  countenance  till  every  feature 
beamed  with  an  inexpressible  grace.  Her  face  was  the  mirror 
of  purity  and  truth,  and  yon  felt,  whilst  looking  upon  it,  that  it 
was  impossible  for  Margaret  to  deceive. 

"How  could  I  be  unhappy,  while  I  had  these  two  beautiful 
children  for  my  daily  companions,  and  the  most  charming  rural 
scenery  at  my  immediate  conmand  ? 

"  Sir  Alexander  came  every  day  to  the  Lodge  to  see  his  child, 
and  always  lavished  upon  me  the  most  flattering  marks  of  his 

favor. 

"  His  manner  to  my  mother  was,  at  first,  shy  and  reserved. 
This  wore  off  by  degrees,  Rad  before  two  years  had  expired, 


r  s. 
not  hare  disgraced  m 

first  in  erery  sport,  tho 
passions  were  warm  and 
r  affections  intense  and 
I  ffinuing  that  while  con- 
ou  could  bat  admire  and 

her'capricioos,  bnt  her 
exuberance  of  her  fancy 
18  a  fair  and  happy  child, 
till  one  baneful  passion 
beautiful. 

as  less  gifted  than  Alice 
er  foster-sister  in  mental 
almost  diminutive.  Her 
except  the  dark  eyes,  the 
irpassed. 

fery  pale,  and  her  lofty, 
ession  from  infancy.  In 
i,  you  seldom  heard  Mar- 
had  a  most  bewitching 
ntenance  till  every  feature 
Her  face  was  the  mirror 
st  looking  upon  it,  that  it 
e. 

;  had  these  two  beautiful 
i  the  most  charming  rural 

the  Lodge  to  see  his  chUd, 
ost  flattering  marks  of  his 

at  first,  shy  and  reser%  ed. 
e  two  years  had  expired, 


T  H  K     M  0  N  C  T  0  N  8  . 


168 


from  the  deat.i  of  his  wife,  his  visits  became  bo  constant,  and  his 
attentions  so  marked,  that  Diiuib  once  more  began  to  entertain 
hopes  that  her  ambitious  schemes  for  her  daughter  might  yet  be 
realized. 

'•  These  hopes  were  only  frustrated  by  the  sudden  death  of  the 
object  for  whom  they  were  cherished. 

"  My  mother,  for  some  week.s,  had  complained  of  an  acnte 
pain  in  her  left  side,  just  under  her  breast,  and  the  medicines 
she  procured  from  the  doctor  afforded  her  no  relief. 

"She  grew  nervous  and  apprehensive  of  tho  consequences, 
but  as  her  personal  appearance  was  not  at  all  injured  by  her 
complaint,  Dinah  ridiculed  her  fears. 

"  '  You  may  langh  as  you  please,  mother,'  she  said,  the  very 
day  before  she  died,  '  but  I  feel  that  this  pain  will  be  the  death 
of  me — and  I  so  unfit  to  die,'  she  added,  with  a  deep  sigh. 

"  '  Nonsense  I'  returned  Piiiah,  '  you  will  wear  your  wedding 
clothes  a  second  time,  before  we  put  on  your  shroud.' 

"  My  mother  only  answered  with  another  deep-drawn  sigh. 
She  passed  a  sleepless  night — the  doctor  was  sent  for  in  the 
morning,  gave  her  a  composing  draught,  and  told  her  to  make 
her  mind  easy,  for  she  had  nothing  to  fear. 

"  I  always  slept  in  the  same  bed  with  my  mother.  That 
night  I  had  a  bad  cold  and  could  not  sleep  ;  but  knowing  that 
she  was  not  well,  I  lay  quite  still,  fearing  to  disturb  her.  She 
slept  well  during  the  enrly  part  of  the  night.  The  clock  had 
just  struck  twelve  when  she  rose  np  in  the  bed,  and  called 
Dinah  to  come  to  her  quickly.  Her  voice  sounded  hollow  and 
tremulous. 

"  'What  ails  you,  Rachel  V  grumbled  the  hard  woman  ;  'dia- 
turbing  a  body  at  this  hour  of  the  night.' 

"  'Be  it  night  or  morning,'  said  my  mother,  '  T  am  dying,  and 
this  hour  will  be  my  last.' 

"  '  Then,  in  the  name  of  God  !  send  for  the  doctor.' 

** '  It  is  too  late  now.     He  can  do  me  no  good — I  am  going 

1* 


•1 


i 


164 


THK     M0NCT0N8, 


I  iff 


i'H 


feat ;  but  •hero  is  80in»'thiug  on  rny  mind,  niotiier  w'h'jI  I  lu  .st 
t.  ;  1)1  ore  I  go.     Sit  dow    bu«ide  lue  on  the  bed,  whilst  I 

!h<;'    stroiigth  left  to  do  it,  and  swear  to  me,  inollier,  that 
s-Hi   \\''i  not  abuse  the  coufideuce  I  am  about  to  repose  in 

"  Dinali  no 'ded  assent. 

"  '  That  will  not  do.  I  must  have  your  solemn  word— your 
oath  !' 

"  '  Wliat  good  will  that  do,  Rachel?  no  oath  can  bind  me— 
I  believe  in  no  God,  and  fear  no  devil  1' 

"This  confession  was  accompanied  by  a  hideous,  cackling 
laugh.     Rachel  groaned  aloud. 

"  '  Oh,  mother  I  there  is  a  God — an  avenging  God  1  Could 
yon  feel  what  I  now  feel,  and  see  what  I  now  see,  like  the 
devils,  you  would  believe  and  tremble.  You  will  know  it  one 
day,  and  like  me,  find  out  that  repentance  comes  too  late.  I 
will,  however,  tell  the  plain  truth,  and  your  diabolical  policy, 
will,  doubtless,  suggest  the  use  which  may  be  made  of  such  an 
important  secret.' 

"  There  was  a  long  pause,  after  which  some  sentences  passed 
between  them,  in  such  a  low  voice,  that  I  could  not  distinctly 
hear  them ;  at  last  I  heard  my  mother  say, 

" '  You  never  saw  these  children,  or  you  would  not  wonder 
that  my  heart  so  clave  to  that  fair  babe.  Yon  thought  that  I 
accepted  Robert  Moncton's  bribe,  and  put  the  other  child  oat 
of  the  way,' 

" '  And  did  you  not  V  cried  the  eager  old  woman,  breathless 
with  curiosity. 

" '  I  took  the  bribe.  But  the  child  died  a  natural  death,  and 
I  was  saved  the  commission  of  a  frightful  crime,  which  you  and 
your  master  were  constantly  writing  to  me,  to  urge  me  to 
commit.    Now,  listen,  mother.' 

"  What  she  said  was  in  tones  so  low,  that,  though  I  strained 
^«ry  nerve  to  listen,  as  I  should  have  dc-i",  had  it  been  a 


J 


)  N  8  . 


iiid,  mother,  w'i'mi.  I  lu^g*. 

!  lue  on  the  bed,  whilst  I 

'ear  to  me,  mother,  that 

am  about  to  repose  in 


I  your  solemn  word — your 

?  no  oath  can  bind  me — 

I' 

1  by  a  hideous,  cackling 

,n  avenging  God  1  Could 
ivhat  I  now  see,  like  the 
3.  You  will  know  it  one 
itance  comes  too  late.  I 
id  your  diabolical  policy, 
I  may  be  made  of  such  an 

lich  some  sentences  passed 

hat  I  could  not  distinctly 

rsay, 

9r  you  would  not  wonder 

ibe.     You  thought  that  I 

d  put  the  other  child  oat 

ger  old  woman,  breathless 

died  a  natural  death,  and 
tful  crime,  which  you  and 
g  to  me,  to  urge  me  to 

w,  that,  though  I  strained 
lare  dci".  had  it  been  a 


THE     MOWCTON'a, 

ghost  story,  or  t  y  t- ...  of  horror,  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 
frustrated  all  my  endeavors. 

"  R  ■.|i..i\  conMnnniciition  appeared  to  astonish  lier  mother. 
Her  dark,  wi  nk'ed  brows  ('outracted  until  not  a  purticle  of  the 
eyes  wjji-e  visi  ile,  and  site  sat  for  n  long  while  in  deep  thought, 
rocking  herse  f  to  and  fro  on  the  bed,  whilst  Uie  dying  woman 
rpgurded  her  with  expanded  eyes  and  raisctl  liands,  locked 
tightly  toget'.er.     At  last  she  apoke. 

"  '  Dinah  i  make  no  ill  use  of  my  confidence,  or  tliore  will  come 
a  day  of  vengeance  for  both  you  and  mo.  What  .-^hnll  we  gain 
by  being  tools  in  the  hands  of  a  wicked  man  like  Robert  Monc- 
ton.  Why  should  we  sell  our  souls  for  naught,  to  do  his  dirty 
work.' 

" '  Not  to  serve  him  will  I  do  aught  to  injure  tlie  child.  No, 
no.  Dinan  North  is  not  such  a  fool.  If  I  do  it  to  gnilify  my 
own  revenge,  that's  another  thing.  I  have  this  bad,  bold 
Robert  in  my  power.  This  secret  will  be  a  fortune  in  itself — 
will  extort  from  his  mean,  avaricious  soul,  a  portion  of  his  ill- 
gotten  wealth.  Ha,  my  child  !  you  did  well  and  wisely,  and, 
may  die  in  peace,  without  the  stain  of  blood  upon  your  soul,' 

"  Rachel  shook  her  head  despondingly. 

" '  There  is  no  peace,  saith  my  God,  for  the  wicked.  My 
soul  consented  to  the  crime,  and  whilst  the  thought  was  upper- 
most in  my  heart,  the  bolt  of  the  Almighty  smote  me,  and  my 
resolution  wavered  ;  but,  the  guilt,  at  this  moment,  a{)pear8  to 
me  the  same.  It  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  die  without  hope. 
Where  is  Alice  V 

"  '  Sleeping.     Shall  I  bring  her  to  you  ?' 

"  '  Let  her  sleep.  I  feel  sleepy,  too.  Smooth  my  pillow, 
mother.  Give  me  a  little  wat^r.  I  feel  easy  now.  Perhapg, 
I  shall  awake  in  the  morning  better.' 

"  The  pillows  were  arranged — the  draught  given  ;  but  the 
sleeper  never  awoke  again. 

"  Her  mysterious  communications,  which  only  came  by  halrea 


.1 


166 


THE     MOSOTONS. 


to  my  ears,  ftlled  my  mind  with  vaguo  conjectures,  and  I  cannot 
help  thinking:,  to  this  hour,  that  the  young  heir  of  Moncton 
came  to  an  ,.ntinn-ly  death,  and  she  blamed  herself  so  bitterly 
for  not  having  made  me  supply  his  place. 

"  Stern  us  luy  mother  had  been  during  her  life,  her  death  was 
a  severe  blow  to  us  all,  especially  to  Alice  and  me  ;  as  it 
removed  from  our  humble  home  an  object  most  dear  to  us  both, 
the  little  lady  of  the  manor,  to  whom  we  had  ever  given  the 
endearing  name  of  sister. 

"  After  Margaret  left  us,  how  dull  did  all  our  pastimes  appear. 
Alice  and  I  wandered  sadly  and  silently  among  our  old  haunts; 
the  song  of  the  birds  cheered  us  no  longer  ;  the  flowers  seemed 
less  fair ;  the  murmur  of  the  willow-crowned  brook  loss  musical ; 
the  presiding  genius  of  the  place  had  vanished  ;  we  felt  that 
we  were  alone. 

••  I  had  now  reached  my  fourteenth  year,  and  Sir  Alexander, 
true  to  the  promise  made  to  his  wife,  sent  me  to  an  excellent 
school  in  the  city  of  York.  Here  I  made  such  good  use  of  my 
time,  that  before  three  years  had  elapsed  I  was  second  boy  in 
the  head  class,  and  had  won  the  respect  of  the  master  and  ush- 
ers. My  munificent  patron  was  greatly  pleased  with  the  pro- 
gress I  had  made,  and  hinted  at  sending  me  to  college,  if  I  con- 
tinued to  deserve  his  good  opinion. 

"  Ah,  Geoffrey  !  those  were  halcyon  days,  when  I  returned 
to  spend  the  vacations  at  the  Lodge,  and  found  myself  ever  a 
welcome  visitor  at  the  Hall. 

"  With  a  proud  heart  I  recounted  to  Sir  Alexandsr,  all  my 
boyish  triumphs  at  school,  and  the  good  baronet  listened  to  my 
enthusiastic  details  with  the  most  intense  interest,  and  fought 
all  his  juvenile  battles  over  again,  with  boyish  ardor,  to  the 
infinite  delight  of  our  admiring  audience,  Margaret  and  Alice. 
The  latter  spent  most  of  her  time  with  Miss  Moncton,  who  was 
80  much  attached  to  her  foster-sister,  and  shed  so  many  tears 
at  parting  from  her,  that  Sir  Alexander  yielded  to  her  earnest 


N  I. 

conjectures,  and  I  cannot 

young  heir  of  Moncton 

)lftmed  herself  so  bitterly 

CO. 

ng  her  life,  her  death  was 
to  Alice  and  me  ;  as  it 
cct  most  dear  to  us  both, 
a  we  had  ever  given  the 

id  all  our  pastimes  appear, 
ly  among  our  old  haunts; 
nger  ;  tlie  flowers  seemed 
)wned  brook  loss  musical ; 
il  vanished ;  we  felt  that 

I  year,  and  Sir  Alexander, 
e,  sent  me  to  an  excellent 
nndo  such  good  use  of  my 
ipsed  r  was  second  boy  in 
ict  of  the  master  and  ush- 
ntly  pleased  with  the  pro- 
ng me  to  college,  if  I  con- 
on  days,  when  I  returned 
,  and  found  myself  ever  a 

to  Sir  Alexander,  all  my 
»od  baronet  listened  to  my 
tense  interest,  and  fought 
with  boyish  ardor,  to  the 
ence,  Margaret  and  Alice, 
h  Miss  Moncton,  who  was 
r,  and  shed  so  many  tears 
ier  yielded  to  her  earnest 


THE     U0NCT0N8. 


161 


request  for  Alice  to  remain  with  her,  and  the  young  heiress  and 
tiie  liuntsrnan's  blooming  daughter  were  seldom  apart  Miss 
Muiictoa's  govcrML'Ns,  un  auiiublu  and  highly  accomplished 
woman,  took  as  tniich  pains  in  teaching  Alice  us  she  did  iu 
sii|if:'iritendiiig  the  education  of  her  high-born  pupil.  The  beau- 
tii'iil  ',r\rl  acquired  her  tasks  so  rapidly,  and  with  mr.h  un  intense 
disire  for  iinproveniciit,  that  Sir  Alexander  declared,  that  she 
beut  his  Madge  hollow. 

"  Dinah  North  e.tulted  in  the  growing  charms  of  her  grand- 
daughter. If  the  old  woman  regarded  anything  on  earth  with 
affection,  it  was  the  tall,  fair  girl  so  unlike  herself.  And 
Alice,  too — I  hove  often  wondered  how  it  were  possible — Alice 
loved  with  the  most  ardent  affection,  that  forbidding-looking, 
odious  creature. 

"  To  me,  since  the  death  of  my  mother,  she  had  been  civil  but 
reserved — never  addressing  me  without  occasion  required — ond 
I  neither  sought  nor  cared  for  her  regard. 

"  It  was  on  the  return  of  one  of  those  holidays,  when  I 
returned  homo  full  of  eager  anticipations  of  happiness,  of  joyous 
days  spent  at  the  park  in  company  with  Margaret  and  Alice, 
that  I  first  beheld  that  artful  villain,  Robert  Moncton. 

"  It  was  a  lovely  July  evening.  The  York  coach  set  me 
down  at  the  Park  gates,  and  I  entered  the  pretty  cottage  with 
my  scanty  luggoge  on  my  back,  and  found  the  lawyer  engaged 
in  earnest  conversation  with  my  grandmother. 

"  Struck  with  the  appearance  of  the  man,  which  at  first  sight 
is  very  remarkable,  I  paused  for  some  minutes  on  the  threshold, 
unobserved  by  the  parties.  Like  you,  Geoffrey,  I  shall  never 
forget  *the  impression  bis  countenance  made  upon  me.  The 
features  so  handsome,  the  coloring  so  fine,  the  person  that  of  a 
finished  gentleman  ;  and  yet,  all  this  pleasing  combination  of 
form  and  face  marred  by  that  cold,  cruel,  merciless  eye.  Its 
expression  so  dead,  so  joyless,  sent  a  chill  through  my  whole 
frame,  and  I  shrank  from  enconntcring  its  icy  ga/«,  and  was 


1 


-i^ 


5l 


158 


THE     UUNOTONI. 


about  quietly  to  retire  by  a  back  door,  when  my  attention  WM 

wrested  by  the  following  l)ricr  couvoraalion. 
"  •  I  should  like  to  see  the  lud.' 
"  •  We  expect  him  hoiue  froui  Bchool  by  the  coach  to-night. 

"•What  ttgo  \h  he?' 

•"Just  sixteen.' 

"  '  WImt  doim  Sir  Alexander  mean  to  do  for  him  ?' 

"  'Send  liiin  to  college,  I  believe.     Uo  is  very  fond  of  him.' 

"  '  Humph  I— and  tlien  to  Lon.lon  to  make  a  lawyer  of  him. 
Leave  him   to  me,   Dinah,   1   will  make  a  solicitor  of  him  iu 
'  ^'  earnest.     I  have  taught  m.u.y  a  bold  heart  and  reckless  hand  to 

solicit  the  charity  of  others.' 

"  '  Devil  doubt  you  1'  rejoined  the  fiend  with  a  hollow,  cack- 
ling laugh.  *  But  you  may  Und  the  boy  one  too  many  for  you, 
with  all  your  cunning.  He'll  not  start  at  shadows,  nor  stumble 
over  straws.  I  have  tamed  many  a  proud  spirit  in  my  day— 
but  this  boy  deGes  my  power.  I  fear  and  hate  him,  but  I  cannot 
crush  him      But  hush  1— here  he  is.' 

"  1  bustled  forward  and  flung  my  portmanteau  heavily  to  the 
ground.     'How  are  you,  grandmother?     How's  Alice?     All 

well,  I  hope  ?' 

"  •  Do  you  see  the  gentleman,  Philip  V 

'< '  Gentleman  1  1  beg  his  pardon.  A  fine  evening,  s.r  ; 
'but  very  hot  and  dusty  travelling  by  the  coach.  I  have  not 
tusttd  anything  since  breakfast,  grandmother ;  aud  1  am  tired 

and  hungry.' 

"  '  Yours  is  the  hungry  age,'  sold  the  lawyer,  starmg  me  fuU 
in  the  face,  as  if  he  was  taking  a  proof  impression  for  legal 
purposes.  His  cold,  searching  look  brought  the  blood  to  my 
cheeks,  and  I  returned  the  impertinent  scrutiny  with  a  glance 

of  defiance. 

.'  He  rose  ;  nodded  meaningly  to  Dmah,  bowed  slightly  to 

me,  and  left  the  cottage. 

"  The  next  minute  Alice  was  in  my  arms. 


p^tfiltf' 


Nt. 


,  when  my  attention  wm 


UllOil. 


i  by  the  coach  to-night.' 


lo  do  for  him  ?' 
Ho  is  very  fond  of  him.' 
to  malic  II  lawyer  of  him. 
ako  a  sulicitor  of  him  iu 
iieart  and  reckleus  huud  to 

Bend  with  a  hollow,  cack- 
ijoy  one  too  many  for  you, 
•t  at  shadows,  nor  stumble 
proud  spirit  in  my  day — 
and  hate  him,  but  I  caunot 

)ortmanteau  heavily  to  the 
ler  ?     How's  Alice  ?     All 

Du.  A  fine  evening,  sir  ; 
jy  the  coach.  I  have  not 
dmothor ;  and  1  am  tired 

the  lawyer,  staring  me  full 
proof  impression  for  legal 
brought  the  blood  to  my 

lent  scrutiny  with  a  glance 

)  Dinah,  bowed  slightly  ta 
ly  arms. 


THE    UONOTONB. 


150 


" '  Brother !  dear,  darling  brother !  welcome,  welcome  • 
tl-ousanil  tiroes' 

"  Oh,  what  a  contrast  to  the  dark,  joyless  countciiaiico  of 
Dinah  North,  was  the  cherub  face  of  Alice — luugliing  in  the 
irreHistiblu  glee  of  her  young  heart.  I  forgot  my  long,  tircHome 
Journey,  duHt,  heat,  and  hunger,  as  I  pulled  her  ou  my  knee, 
and  covered  her  rosy  cheeks  with  kisses. 

"  '  What  news  since  I  left,  Alice  V 

"  '  Sad  news,  Philip  Dear  Madge  is  in  London  on  a  visit  to 
her  aunt;  and  there  is  a  dull,  cross  boy  staying  at  the  Ilall,  with 
a  very  hard  name — Theopliilus  Moncton — Margaret's  cousin. 
But  he  is  nothing  like  her,  though  ho  calls  her  his  little  wife. 
But  Madge  says  that  she  will  never  have  him,  though  his  father 
18  very  rich.' 

"  '  I  am  sure  you  will  hate  him,  Philip,  for  ho  calls  us  beggar's 
brats,  and  wonders  that  Sir  Alexander  sutTers  his  daughter  to 
play  with  us.  I  told  him  that  he  was  vtry  rude  ;  and  that  he 
had  better  not  affront  you,  for  you  would  soon  teach  him  better 
manners.  But  he  only  sneered  at  me,  and  said,  "  My  father's  a 
gentleman.  He  never  suffers  mo  to  associate  with  people 
beneath  us.  Your  brother  had  better  keep  out  of  my  way,  or  I 
will  order  my  groom  to  horsewhip  him."  I  felt  very  angry  and 
began  to  cry,  and  Sir  Alexander  came  in  and  reproved  the  boy, 
and  told  me  I  had  bettor  return  to  grandmama  until  Mr.  Monc- 
ton and  his  son  had  left  the  Hall.' 

"  While  little  Alice,  ran  on  thus  to  me,  I  felt  stung  to 
the  quick  ;  and  all  the  prjde  of  my  nature  warring  within.  For 
the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  became  painfully  conscious  of  the 
difference  of  rank  t»  i  existed  between  me  and  my  benefactor  ; 
I  was  restless  and  ul  -ippy,  and  determined  not  to  go  near  the 
Hall,  until  Sir  Alexander  bade  me  to  do  so  himself. 

"  But  days  passed,  am'  I  saw  nothing  of  the  good  Baronet, 
and  Alice  and  I  were  obliged  to  content  ourselves  by  roaming 
through  all  the  old,  beloved  haunts,  and  talking  of  Margnret. 


iL.' 


'4 

,'i 


^ 


160 


THE     H0NCT0N8. 


We  were  returning  one  evening  through  the  fine  avenue  of  oaks, 
that  led  to  the  front  entrance  of  the  demesne,  when  a  ponj 
rushed  past  us  at  full  gallop.  A  boyish  impulse,  tempted  rac 
to  give  a  loud  halloo,  in  order  to  set  the  beautiful  animal  off  at 
itfl  wildest  speed.  In  a  few  minutes  we  met  a  lad  of  my  own 
age,  booted  and  spurred,  with  a  whip  in  his  hand,  running  in  the 
same  direction  the  pony  had  taken.  He  was  in  a  towering 
passion,  and'  coming  up  to  us,  he  cried  out,  with  a  menacing 
air — 

" '  You  impudent  rascal  I  how  dared  you  to  shout  in  that 
way,  to  frighten  my  horse,  when  you  saw  me  endeavoring  to 
catch  him  V 

"  '  I  saw  no  such  thing,'  I  replied,  drily.  '  I  admired  the 
pony,  and  shouted  to  see  how  much  faster  he  could  run.' 

"  '  You  deserve  a  good  thrashing,'  quoth  he.  *  Go  and  catch 
the  horse  for  me,  or  I  will  complain  to  Sir  Alexander  of  your 
conduct.' 

"  Sir  Alexander  is  not  my  master,  neither  are  you.  I  shall 
do  no  such  thing.' 

"  '  Do  it  instantly  I'  stamping  with  his  foot. 

"  *  Do  it  yourself.    You  look  quite  as  fit  for  a  groom  as  I  do.' 

"  I  tried  to  pass  him,  but  he  stepped  into  the  centre  of  the 
path,  and  hindered  rac.  To  avoid  a  collision  was  now 
impiossible. 

" '  Yon  insolent  young  blackguard  I'  be  cried,  '  do  you 
know  that  you  are  speaking  to  a  geutleman  7' 

" '  Indeed  P  I  said,  with  a  provoking  smile.  '  I  ought  to 
thank  yon  for  the  information,  for  I  never  should  have  suspected 
the  fact.' 

"  With  a  yell  of  rage,  ho  struck  me  in  tbe  face  with  the  butt 
end  of  his  whip.  I  sprang  upon  him  with  the  strength  of  a 
tiger,  and  seizing  his  puny  form  in  my  arms,  I  dashed  him 
beneath  my  feet,  and  after  bestowing  upon  him  sundry  hearty 
kicks,  rejoined   tho   ttrrified   Alice,  and   left   Mr.   Theopbilua 


ONB. 


High  the  fine  avenue  of  oaks, 
the  demesne,  when  a  ponj 
boyish  impulso,  tempted  me 
;  the  beautiful  animal  off  at 
j8  we  met  a  lad  of  my  own 
p  in  his  hand,  running  in  the 
n.  He  was  in  a  towering 
cried  out,  with  a  menacing 

dared  you  to  shout  in  that 
jrou  saw  me  endeavoring  to 

led,  drily.     '1  admired  the 
faster  he  could  run.' 
•,' quoth  he.     '•Go  and  catch 
in  to  Sir  Alexander  of  your 

er,  neither  are  you.     I  shall 

th  his  foot. 

te  as  fit  for  a  groom  as  I  do.' 
epped  into  the  centre  of  the 
ivoid    a    collision  was    now 

uard  1'  he  cried,  '  do  you 
jutleman  V 

yoking  smile.  '  I  ought  to 
[  never  should  have  suspected 

:  me  in  the  face  with  the  butt 

him  with  the  strength  of  a 

in  my  arms,  I  dashed  him 

cing  upon  him  sundry  hearty 

:e,  and  left  Mr.  Theophilus 


THE     U0NCT0N8, 


161 


Moncton,  to  gather  up  his  fallen  dignity,  and  make  the  best  of 
his  way  home  to  the  Hall. 

"  This  frolic  cost  me  far  more  than  I  expected-  The  next 
morning.  Sir  Alexander  rode  over  to  the  Lodge,  and  severely 
reprimanded  me  for  my  couduct ;  and  ended  his  lecture,  by 
affirming  in  positive  terms,  that  if  I.  did  not  beg  bis  young 
relative'!!  pardon,  he  would  withdraw  his  favor  from  me  for  ever. 

"  This,  I  proudly  refused  to  do— and  the  Baronet  as  proudly 
told  me,  '  To  see  his  face  no  more !' 

"  I  looked  sorrowfully  up  as  he  said  this.  The  tears  were  in 
my  eyes,  for  I  loved  him  very  much — but  my  heart  was  too  full 
to  speak. 

"  He  leant  down  from  his  horse,  expecting  my  answer — I  was 
silent — the  color  mounted  to  hia  cheeks — he  waited  a  few 
minutes  longer — I  made  no  sign,  and  he  struck  the  spurs  into  his 
horse,  and  rode  quickly  away. 

"  '  There  goes  my  only  friend  1'  I  cried.  '  Corse  the  mean 
wretch,  who  robbed  me  of  my  friend  !  I  only  regret  I  did  not 
kill  him  1' 

"  Thus,  for  one  boyish  act  of  indiscretion  I  was  flung  friend- 
less upon  the  world.  Yet,  Geoffrey,  were  the  thing  to  do  again, 
I  feel,  that  I  could  not,  and  would  not,  act  otherwise. 

"  Time  has  convinced  me  that  Robert  Moncton,  acting  with 
his  usual  policy,  had  made  Sir  Alexander  ashamed  of  his  con- 
nection with  us,  and  he  gladly  availed  himself  of  the  first 
plausibb  excnse  to  cast  me  off.  Alice  deeply  lamented  my 
disgrace.;  but  the  whole  affair  afforded  mirth  to  my  grandmother, 
who  seemed  greatly  to  enjoy  my  unfortunate  triumph  over  the 
boy  with  the  hard  name. 


-1 


TBI    HONOTONS. 


V*. 


m 


1  :■ 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

HABB1S0H     FINDS    A    FRIEND     IN     NKED. 

"  DmuNG  my  residence  at  school  in  York,  my  master  was  often 
▼isited  by  a  wealthy  merchant  who  bore  the  same  name  with 
myself.  This  man  was  an  old  bachelor,  very  eccentric,  but  nni- 
Tersally  esteemed  as  one  of  the  most  benevol'^nt  of  men.  He 
was  present  at  one  of  the  school  examinations  in  which  I  took 
many  prizes,  and  asking  my  name  he  found  out  that  he  was 
related  to  my  father,  and  bestowed  loon  me  many  marks  of 
f»Tor,  such  as  presenting  me  with  useful  books,  and  often  asking 
me  over  to  his  house  to  dine,  or  spend  the  evening. 

"  Flattered  by  his  attentions  to  me,  I  had  lost  no  opportunity 
of  increasing  our  friendship,  and  I  determined  to  apply  to  bun 
in  my  present  distress. 

"  I  was  a  perfect  novice  in  the  art  of  letter-writing,  never  having 
penned  an  epistle  in  my  life,  and  after  making  several  attempts 
with  which  I  was  perfectly  disgusted,  I  determined  to  walk  over 
to  the  city  and  make  my  application  in  person  to  Mr.  Morning- 
ton. 

"  Withont  communicating  my  intentions  to  Alice,  I  carefully 
tied  up  a  change  of  linen  in  a  silk  handkerchief,  and  with  the 
mighty  sum  of  five  shillings  in  my  pocket,  commenced  my  pedes- 
trian journey  of  thirty  odd  m'les. 

"  I  started  in  fue  morning  by  day-break,  and  without  meeting 
with  any  particular  adventures  on  the  road,  I  arrived  at  six 
o'clock  In  the  evening,  foot-sore  and  wpj,ry  at  tlie  rich  man's 
door.  When  there,  ray  heart,  which  had  beon  as  stout  as  a 
lion's  on  the  road,  failed  me,  and  I  sat  down  upon  the  broad 


s. 


VII. 

HD     IN     NE  ED. 

»rk,  my  master  waa  often 
re  the  same  name  with 
very  eccentric,  but  nni- 
lenevol'^nt  of  men.  He 
nations  in  which  I  took 
fonnd  out  that  he  was 
on  me  many  marks  of 
books,  and  often  asking 
he  evening. 

had  lost  no  opportunity 
rmined  to  apply  to  bun 

ter-writing,  never  having 
laking  several  attempts 
determined  to  walk  over 
person  to  Mr.  Morning- 
Ions  to  Alice,  I  carefully 
dkerchief,  and  with  the 
et,  commenced  my  pedes- 

ak,  and  without  meeting 
!  road,  I  arrived  at  six 
iVPiiry  at  the  rich  man's 
had  been  as  stout  as  a 
down  upon  the  broad 


THE     MONOTONS. 


168 


Btone  steps  that  led  up  to  the  house,  horribly  aepressed  and 
uncertain  what  course  to  take. 

"  Tliis  I  knew,  would  not  do — the  night  was  coming  on,  and  the 
rain  which  had  threatened  all  day  now  began  to  fall  fast.  Mak- 
ing a  desperate  effort,  1  sprang  up  the  steps,  and  gave  a  gentle 
knock — 80  gentle,  that  it  was  unheard  ;  and  unable  to  summou 
sufiQcieat  courage  to  repeat  the  experiment,  I  resumed  my  seat 
until  some  more  furtuuate  applicant  should  seek  admittaace. 

"^^ot  many  minutes  elapsed,  before  the  quick  loud  rap  of  the 
postman  brought  Mrs.  Jdlly,  the  housekeeper,  to  the  door  ;  and 
edging  close  to  him  of  the  red  jacket,  1  asked  in  a  tremulous 
voice — '  If  Mr,  Morningtou  was  at  home  V 

" '  Why,  dearee  mc,  master  Philip,  is  that  you  V  said  the  kind 
woman,  elevating  her  spectacles — '  who  would  have  thought  of 
seeing  you  t'ui{>lit  ?" 

"  '  Who  indeed.  }{ut,  my  dear  Mrs.  Jolly,  is  Mr.  Morningtou 
disengaged,  and  can  I  sue  him  V 

"  '  He  is  t'home,  and  you  can  speak  to  him,  but  not  just  now. 
He's  to  his  dinner,  an(i  doan't  like  to  be  disturbed.  But  come 
this  way,  an  I'll  lull  liim  you  are  here' 

" '  Who's  that  you  are  speaking  to,  Mrs.  Jolly  V  cried  my 
worthy  old  friend  as  we  passed  the  diniiig-roora  door,  through 
which  the  footmen  were  carrying  an  excellent  dinner  to  table. 

"  '  Only  Mr.  Philip,  sir.' 

"  '  Mr.  Philip  1'  and  the  next  moment,  the  old  man  came  out 
and  grasped  me  warmly  by  the  hand.  '  Why  lad,  what  brings 
you  back  to  school  so  soon — tired  of  play  already,  hey  ?' 

" '  No  sir.  I  fear  play  will  soon  tire  of  me.  I  am  to  go  to 
school  no  more.' 

"  '  Sorry  to  hoar  that,  Phil.  Just  the  time  rvhen  instruction 
would  bo  of  the  most  service  to  you  ;  you  would  learn  more  in 
the  ensuing  year,  than  in  all  that  have  gone  before  it.  Leave 
school — no,  no,  I  must  see  you  the  head  boy  in  it  yet.' 

" '  It  was  my  ambition,  sir.     But  •-on  know  I  am  only  a  poor 


% 


164 


THE     HONOTONS. 


'i\ 


orphau  lad,  entirely  dependent  on  the  liounty  of  Sir  Alexander 
Moncton.  I  have  offended  this  gentleman,  and  he  will  do  no 
more  for  me  ;  and  I  walked  from  the  Park  to-day  to  ask  your 
tidvice  as  to  what  course  I  had  better  pursue,  and  in  what  way 
i  um  most  likely  to  euro  my  own  living.' 

'*  The  old  geutlemau  looked  grave. 

"  '  Offended  Sir  Alexander  ?  You  must  have  acted  very  im- 
pruJcntly  tu  do  that,  nnd  he  so  kind  to  yoiT.  Walked  all  the 
way  from  Moncton.  Bless  the  boy,  how  tired  and  hungry  you 
must  be.  Sit  aown,  young  Philip  Momiugton,  and  get  your 
dinner  with  old  Philip  Morningtou  ;  and  we  will  talk  over  these 
.  matters  by  and  bye.' 

"  Gladly  I  accepted  the  dear  old  gentleman's  hearty  invitation. 
1  had  not  tasted  food  since  early  dawn,  and  was  so  outrageously 
hungry  and  eat  with  such  a  right  good  will,  that  he  often  stop- 
ped and  laughed  heartily  at  my  voracity. 

"  '  Well  done,  Philip  1  Don't  be  ashamed — hold  in  your 
plate  for  another  slice  of  beef.  Thirty  miles  of  hard  walking  at 
this  season  of  the  year,  may  well  give  a  boy  of  sixteen,  strong 
and  healthy  like  you,  a  good  appetite.' 

"  After  the  cloth  was  drawn,  and  the  old  gentleman  had 
refreshed  me  with  a  couple  of  glasses  of  excellent  wine,  obedient 
to  his  request,  I  related  to  him  my  adventure  with  Theophilus 
Moncton  in  the  park,  and  its  unfortunate  result. 

"  Instead  of  blaming  me,  the  whole  affair  seemed  greatly  to 
amuse  the  hearty  old  man.  He  fell  back  in  his  chair,  and 
chuckled  and  laughed  until  he  declared  that  his  sides  ached. 

"  '  And  was  it  for  pumshing  that  arrogant  puppy  as  he 
deserved,  that  Sir  Alexander  cast  yon,  my  fine  fellow,  from  hia 
favor  ?' 

' '  He  might  have  forgiven  that.  It  was  for  refusing  so  posi- 
tively his  commands,  in  not  asking  young  Moncton's  pardon.' 

"  '  If  you  had  obeyed  him  in  this  instance,  Philip,  you  would 
have  forfeited  my  good    opinion   for  ever,   tind   would  have 


■'^U 


X8. 


lioaaty  of  Sir  Alexander 
euiau,  and  he  wiU  do  ao 
Park  to-day  to  ask  your 
pursue,  oud  iu  what  way 


nnust  bare  acted  very  iia- 
0  yoir.  Walked  all  the 
low  tired  and  hungry  you 
[orniugton,  and  get  your 
id  we  will  talk  over  these 

ilpman's  hearty  inritation. 

and  was  so  ontrageouuly 

i  will,  that  he  often  stop- 

ashamed — hold  in  your 
miles  of  hard  walking  at 
a  boy  of  sixteen,  strong 

the  old  gentleman  had 
F  excellent  wine,  obedient 
Ivcnture  with  Theophilus 
ite  result. 

afifair  seemed  greatly  to 
back  in  his  chair,  and 
that  his  sides  ached, 
arrogant  puppy  as  he 
my  fine  fellow,  from  hia 

;  was  for  refusing  so  posi- 
ng Moncton's  pardon.' 
stance,  Philip,  you  would 
ever,   tuid   would  have 


THE     UON0TOK8. 


165 


deserved  to  hare  been  kicked  by  Sir  Alexander's  lackeys  for 
your  meanness.  Don't  look  so  cast  down,  bov.  I  honor  you 
tor  your  self-respect  and  independence.  You  have  other  friends 
besides  Sir  Alexander  Moncton,  who  will  not  forsake  you  Ibr 
taking  your  own  part  like  a  man.  You  shall  go  to  school  yet 
-ay  and  become  the  head  scholar  in  Dr.  Trimmer's  head  class 
and  finish  your  education  at  Oxford,  or  my  name  is  not  Philin 
Mornington.'  *^ 

"How  well  did  this  excellent,  ^arm-hearted,  generous  man 
perform  his  promise-how  ill  I  profited  by  the  education  he 
gave  me,  and  the  wealth  he  bequeathed  to  me  at  his  death,  the 
subsequent  portion  of  my  history  will  reveal. 

'-I  went  to  school  at  the  end  of  the  vacation,  but  as  a  day- 
boarder  ;  Mr.  Mornington  having  told  me  to  consider  his  house 
as  ray  future  home. 

"A  boy  that  came  from  our  village  to  Dr.  Trimmer's  school 
told  me  that  Sir  Alexander's  passion  soon  cooled,  and  he  rode 
over  to  the  Lodge  a  week  after  I  left,  to  inquire  after  his  old 
pet,  and  was  surprised  and  exasperated  to  find  the  bird  flown 
and  taken  by  the  hand  by  a  man  for  whom  he  had  a  great  per- 
sonal antipathy  ;  who  bad  ever  opposed  him  in  politics,  and  had 
twice  carried  an  election  against  him. 

"There  was  enough  of  revenge  in  my  composition  to  feel 
glad  that  Sir  Alexander  was  annoyed  at  my  good-fortune 

"The  next  year  3aw  me  at  college,  with  a  handsome  allow- 
nnce  trom  my  generous  patron,  to  enable  me  to  establish  my 
Claims  as  a  gentleman.  I  will  pass  over  the  three  years  I  spent 
at  this  splendid  abode  of  science,  where  learning  and  vice  walk 
liaiid  in  hand. 

"The  gratitude  I  felt  for  all  Mr.  Mornington  had  done  for 
>ne,  for  a  long  time  restrained  me  from  indulging  in  the  wild 
excesses  which  disgraced  the  conduct  of  most  of  the  young  men 
with  whom  I  associated.  This  reluctance,  however,  to  do  and 
countenance  evil,  gradually  wore  off,  and  I  became  as  wild  and 
dissipated  as  the  rest. 


i.  !^  he 


166 


THE     MONOrONS. 


"  I  formed  many  agreeable  acquaintances  at  college,  but  one 
only  who  really  deserved  the  na'ue  of  a  friend.  Kind,  gentle  and 
Btadions,  Cornelius  Lai:rie  (for  so  I  huuII  cull  him)  mingled 
Tery  little  with  liia  fellow  students  ;  his  health  being  delicate,  ho 
spent  most  of  his  leisure  hours  in  walking,  an  exercise  of  wliich 
be  was  particularly  foud,  and  in  which  I  generally  partijipated. 

"  His  mild,  intelligent  countenance  first  won  my  regard.  I 
sought  his  ai;quaintance,  found  hira  easy  of  access,  friendly  and 
comniunicativu,  and  always  anxious  to  oblige  every  one  as  far 
as  lay  in  his  power.  Coiumanding  an  excellent  income,  he  was 
always  ready  to  assist  the  improvident  who  had  exi)endcd  theirs, 
and  with  such  a  disposition,  you  may  be  certain,  that  the  calls 
upon  his  purse  were  by  no  means  few.  He  formed  a  strong 
ai/tachment  to  me,  uad  wo  usually  spent  most  of  our  time 
together. 

"  Cornelius  invited  me  to  pass  the  Christmas  vacation  with 
Lim  in  town.  When  at  home  he  resided  with  his  aunt,  a  widow 
lady  'vho  hud  brought  up  his  onlj  sister,  who  had  been  left  an 
orphan  at  a  very  early  nge.  Charlotte  Laurie  was  several  years 
younger  tluan  her  brother  ;  and  in  speaking  of  her,  he  had 
always  told  me  that  she  was  a  very  pretty  girl,  I  was  not  pre- 
5  ired  to  behold  the  beautiful  and  fascinating  creature  to  whom 
I  was  introduced. 

"  Charlotte  Laurie  was  a  child  of  nature,  without  display  or 
affect  .don  ;  conscious  of  her  great  personal  attractions  orJy  so 
far  as  to  render  her  more  agreeable — for  what  beautiful  woman 
was  ever  ignorant  of  her  charms  ?  My  pretty  Lotty  knew  per- 
fectly the  power  they  gave  her  over  the  restless  and  inconstant 
heart  of  man,  but  she  did  not  abuse  it. 

"  My  passions,  Geoffrey,  by  nature,  are  as  warm  and  irapetu- 
ous  as  your  own,  and  they  soon  betrayed  me  into  love  ;  and  I 
thought  thai  the  fair  girl  to  whom  I  had  lost  my  heart  was  not 
insensible  to  the  passion  she  had  inspired.  But  when  I  recalled 
my  obscure  parentage,  of  which  Cornelius  was  perfectly 
Ignorant  •  and  the  uncertainty  of  my  future  prospects,  I  felt 


Jl 


THE    MONOTONS. 


ices  at  college,  but  one 
ieiid.    Kiml,  gentle  uiid 
hall  call  him)  mingled 
oiilth  being  delicalo,  he 
g,  an  exorcise  of  which 
generally  participated. 
I'st  won  my  regard.      I 
of  access,  friendly  and 
oblige  every  one  as  far 
xcellent  income,  he  was 
ho  had  expended  theirs, 
;  certain,  that  the  calls 
He  formed  a  strong 
lent  most  of  our  time 

;;!hri8tmas  vacation  with 
[  with  his  aunt,  a  widow 
•,  who  had  been  left  an 
Laurie  was  several  years 
)eaking  of  her,  he  had 
■etty  girl,  I  was  not  pre- 
Qating  creature  to  whom 

ture,  without  display  or 
sonal  attractions  orily  so 
ir  what  beautiful  woman 
'  pretty  Lotty  knew  per- 
le  restless  and  iacoastant 

ire  as  warm  and  impctu- 
red  me  into  love  ;  and  I 
id  lost  my  heart  was  not 
id.  But  when  I  recalled 
Cornelius  was  perfectly 
future  prospects,  I  felt 


that  it  would  be  dishonorable  in  me  to  advance  my  suit  to  the 
young  lady. 

"To  remain  in  the  house  and  keep  silent  upon  a  subject  so 
important  to  my  peace,  I  found  would  be  imiwssible  ;  and  I 
feigned  a  letter  from  Mr.  Mornington,  whom  I  called  my  uncle, 
requiring  my  immediate  presence  in  York. 

"  My  depiirture  caused  great  regret  to  the  family.     Cornelius 

remonstrated;    Mrs.    H questioned   the  necessity  of  my 

journey  ;  Charlotte  said  nothing,  but  left  the  room  in  tears. 
Strongly  tempted  as  I  was  to  stay,  I  remained  lirm  to  my 
original  purpose,  and  bade  adieu  to  my  amiable  friends,  without 
breathing  a  word  even  to  Cornelius  of  my  attachment  for  his 
sister. 

"On  my  way  to  York  I  called  at  my  old  home,  and  was 
received  with  the  most  lively  demonstrations  of  joy  by  Alice, 
whom  I  found  a  blooming  girl  of  fifteen.  . ' 

"  Old  Dinah  told  me,  as  she  scowled  at  my  handsome  dress 
and  improved  appearance,  '  That  she  supposed  J  was  now  too 
fine  a  gentlema,i  to  call  her  grandmotlier,  or  Alice  sister  V 

"I  assured  her  that  my  improved  circumstances  had  not 
changed  my  heart,  nor  made  me  ashamed  of  my  old  friends. 

"  Something,  1  fear,  in  my  looks,  contradicted  my  words,  for 
she  turned  from  me  with  a  scornful  smile. 

"'The  world'  she  said,  'was  a  good  school  for  teaching 
people  the  art  of  falsehood.' 

••  Her  sarcasms  made  me  very  uncomfortable— for  my  con- 
8c»nce  convicted  me  of  their  truth— and  turning  to  Alice  I 
b«rged  her  to  tell  me  the  news,  for  I  was  certain  a  great  deal 
must. have  happened  in  the  neignborhood  during  the  four  years 
I  had  been  absent. 

"  '  No,'  said  Alice  ;  •  v  e  go  on  much  as  usual.  Sir  Alexan- 
der and  Margaret  are  very  kind  to  me,  and  I  go  every  day  ap 
to  the  Hitll.  But  she  is  Miss  Moncton  now— and  I  am  plain 
Alice  Mornington.     Mr  Theophilus  is  often  there;  and  he  is  so 


HfS 


M  I 


t 


i:  ii 


108 


THE     UONOTONS. 


much  improved,  Philip,  you  would  never  know  him.  He  is  no 
longer  proud  and  di8ugreea))le,  but  so  affable  and  kind,  and 
always  sees  me  safe  home  to  the  Lodge.  People  say  that  he  is 
to  marry  Miss  xMoucton  ;  but  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  He 
does  not  love  her  I  am  certain-for  he  told  me  so  a  few  daya 
ago  ;  and  that  he  thought  me  a  thousand  times  handsomer  thau 

his  cousin  1' 

"While  Alice  run  on  thus,  I  kept  my  eyes  fixed  upon  her 
beautiful  face  ;  and  from  the  heightening  of  her  color  when 
speaking  of  Theophilus,  I  was  convinced,  that  young  as  she 
was,  she  was  not  insensible  to  his  flattery.  Anxious  to  warn 
her  of  her  danger,  I  drew  her  arm  through  mine,  and  we  strolled 
togetlier  into  the  park. 

"  '  Dear  Alice,'  I  said,  affectionately  ;  '  do  you  love  your 
brother  as  well  as  you  used  to  do  in  years  long  past  V 

" '  Philip,  do  you  doubt  my  love  V  she  answered,  reproach- 
fully. 

" '  Not  in  the  least,  Alice.  I  know  your  heart  to  be  warm  and 
true ;  but  years  make  great  changes.  Four  years  have  fled 
away  since  we  met,  and  you  are  nearly  grown  into  a  woman. 
Perhaps  you  will  be  angry  with  me  if  I  venture  to  give  you  a 
little  brotherly  advice.' 

"  '  Not  without  you  scold  me  too  much.' 
"  '  My  lecture,  Alice,  I  will  confine  to  a  few  words.     Do  not 
listen,  dear  child,  to  the  flattering  speeches  of  Theophilus  Monc- 
tora.     He  means  you  no  good.' 

"  '  How  can  you  know  that  V  she  said,  quickly. 
"  '  From  the  general  character  which  the  man  bears.    From 
my  own  experience  of  him  when  a  boy.   Avoid  his  company  ;  he 
means  to  deceive  you.' 

"  '  Philip,  you  wrong  him,  indeed,  you  do  1'  she  cried,  with 
flashing  eyes.  '  He  never  talks  to  me  of  love,  he  only  seeks  to 
be  my  friend.  I  am  too  young  to  think  of  love.  I  don't  know 
what  being  iu  love  is— but  1  do  feel  very  grateful  to  one  so 


i  . ,  £' 


THE     MONOTOKa. 


169 


p  know  him.    He  is  no 

a£fiiblo  and  kind,  and 

People  say  that  he  is 

lieve  a  word  of  it.  He 
told  me  80  a  few  days 

d  times  handsomer  than 

my  eyes  fixed  upon  her 
ling  of  her  color  when 
;ed,  that  young  as  she 
;ery.  Anxious  to  warn 
igh  mine,  and  we  strolled 

y  ;   'do  you  love  your 

rs  long  past  V 

she  answered,  reproach- 

(ur  heart  to  be  warm  and 

Four  years  have  fled 

ly  grown  into  a  woman. 

I  venture  to  give  you  a 

ch.' 

;o  a  few  words.     Do  not 

f.bes  of  Theophilus  Monc- 

id,  quickly. 

3h  the  man  bears.     From 
Avoid  his  company  ;  he 

you  do  1'  she  cried,  with 
!  of  love,  he  only  seeks  to 
ik  of  love.  I  don't  know 
1  very  grateful  to  one  so 


much  richer  and  better  than  me,  and  who  is  heir  to  all  these 
beautiful  groves,  and  that  fine  old  Uuli,  taking  such  an 
interest  in  my  welfare — particularly,'  she  added,  with  great 
emphasis  on  her  words,  '  after  he  received  such  unworthy  treat- 
ment from  a  brother  of  mine.' 
"  '  You  surely  do  not  mean  what  yon  say,  Ali<:6  V 
"  '  I  never  say  what  I  do  not  mean  ;  and  if  you  come  back  to 
as,  Philip,  only  to  quarrel  with  us,  you  had  better  have  stayed 
»way.' 

"Per  a  few  minutes  I  felt  terribly  annoyed  ;  but  when  I 
/ecollected  that  these  words  fell  from  the  lips  of  a  spoilt  child, 
I  restrained  my  anger,  in  the  hope  of  saving  her  from  the  ruin  I 
feared  might  be  impending  over  her. 

"  '  Alice,  you  are  a  simple,  little  girl  ;  as  such  I  forgive  you. 
You  are  not  aware  of  the  danger  to  which  you  are  exposed. 
Young  people  are  so  ignorant  of  the  treachery  of  the  world,  a,nd 
so  confident  in  their  own  strength  to  resist  temptation,  that  they 
easily  fall  into  the  snares  laid  for  them  by  wicked  and  designing 
men.  If  you  persist  in  receiving  the  attentions  of  this  man,  who 
would  consider  it  the  utmost  degradation  to  make  you  his  wife, 
I,  as  your  brother  and  natural  protector,  will  consider  it  my  duty 
to  remove  you  from  this  place.' 

"  '  I  will  not  go  r  she  cried  ;  stopping  suddenly  and  looking 
me  in  the  face  with  an  air  of  defiance.  '  You  are  not  your  own 
master  yet,  much  less  mine.  I  shall  remain  here  with  my  dear, 
old  grandmother,  as  long  as  she  lives.  And  let  me  tell  you, 
Mr.  Philip,  I  am  as  competent  to  manage  my  own  affairs  as  yon 
are  I' 

"  Could  this  be  AUce  ? 

"I  looked  at  her,  and  looked  again.  The  beauty  of  her 
conntenance  seemed  changed.  I  turned  from  her  with  a  ddip 
sigh. 

"  '  Oh,  Alice,  sister  Alice  I  I  tremble  for  you  ;  so  yonng  and 
so  vindictive.  This  is  not  my  Alice,  the  happy,  confiding  Alice, 
who  once  loved  me  so  tenderly.' 


I? 


TBI     MQ  N  OTON  8. 


" '  I  did  lovo  you,  Philip,  very  much,'  she  replied,  in  • 
BoftciicU  voice ;  '  but  i>ow  was  my  love  returned  ?  You  quar- 
relled with  the  only  friend  we  had  iu  the  world.  One,  too,  who 
bad  done  so  much  for  us.  To  whose  bounty  we  were  indebted 
for  u  homo  and  daily  bread  ;  for  the  clothes  we  wore,  for  the 
instruction  we  received — who  treated  us  in  every  respect  more 
Ulce  liis  own  children,  than  the  poor  recipients  of  his  noble  gene- 
rosity.  You  forgot  all  this.  You  insolently  refused  to  a])ologize 
to  his  young  relative,  the  heir  of  his  title  and  wealth,  for  huvinj; 
grossly  insulted  him,  and  h'ft  your  homo  and  his  protection 
without  bidding  this  dear  sister,  for  whose  well-doing  you  are  so 
deeply  oncerued,  and  who  shared  in  your  disgrace,  one  short 
farewell.' 

"  '  Alice,  Alice  1' 

"  '  Hush,  sir  ;  hear  me  to  the  end,  if  you  please.  You  acted 
more  ungratefully  still,  when  you  sought  employment  from  one 
of  Sir  Alexander's  bitterest  enemies;  and  never  wrote  a  single 
line  either  to  your  injured  patron  or  to  us.  Was  this  love  ? 
Young  as  I  am,  Philip  Mornington,  I  could  not  have  been 
guilty  of  snch  baseness.  I  despise  your  conduct — and  advice 
comes  very  ill  from  a  person  who  could  be  guilty  of  such.' 

"  She  turned  haughtily  away — and  I,  Geoffrey,  I  stood  over- 
whelmed with  confusion  and  remorse.  I  had  never  seen  my 
conduct  in  this  light  before.  I  had  all  along  imagined  myself 
the  injured  party,  and  looked  upon  Sir  Alexander  us  an  unrea- 
sonable persecutor.  But  I  felt  at  that  moment,  as  I  stood 
humbled  before  that  proud  girl,  that  I  had  not  acted  right — 
that  some  concession  was  due  on  my  part  to  the  man  from  whom 
I  had  received  so  many  benefits  ;  and  but  for  very  shame  I 
would  have  oonght  his  presence,  acknowledged  my  error,  and 
entreated  his  pardon. 

"  Oh,  why  does  this  stubborn  pride  so  often  stand  between  ns 
•nd  onr  best  intentions.  I  let  the  moment  pass,  and  my  heart 
remained  true  to  its  stern  determination,  not  to  yield  one  inch 


■«i4v 


k 


tub,'  she  replied,  in  • 
returned  7  You  quar- 
world.  One,  too,  who 
ounty  we  were  indebted 
lothes  we  wore,  for  the 
s  in  every  respect  more 
)icnt8  of  his  noble  genc- 
iitly  refused  to  a])oiogize 
!  and  wealth,  for  huvinjy 
nno  and  IiIh  protection 
36  well-doing  you  nre  so 
)ur  disgrace,  one  short 


you  please.  You  acted 
t  employment  from  one 
id  never  wrote  a  single 

0  us.     Was  this  love  ? 

1  could  not  have  been 
jr  conduct — and  advice 
»e  guilty  of  such.' 

,  Geoffrey,  I  stood  over- 

I  had  never  seen  my 

along  imagined  myself 

Alexander  as  an  nnrear 

It   moment,  as  I  stood 

had  not  acted  right — 

t  to  the  man  from  whom 

but  for  very  shame  I 

wledged  my  error,  and 

3  often  stand  between  ns 
aent  pass,  and  my  heart 
on,  not  to  yield  one  inch 


TBI     UONCTONfl 


m 


of  wliat  I  falsely  termed  independence.     My  reverie  was  dlt> 
pulled  by  Alice.     She  took  my  hand  kindly. 

"  '  Voii  look  grave,  Philip.  I  have  put  these  serious  thought* 
into  your  head,  and  you  feel  sorry  for  the  past.  My  anger  is 
all  gone.  I  forgive  you  from  ray  very  heart.  So  give  me  a  kiss, 
and  let  us  be  friends.  But  no  lectures  if  you  please  for  the 
future.  I  will  not  stand  a  scolding — not  even  from  you.  You 
need  not  fear  that  I  shall  disgrace  you— I  am  too  proud  to 
place  myself  in  the  power  of  any  one.  I  like,  yes,  I  love  Theo. 
philus  .Moncton,  but  he  will  never  make  a  fool  of  me,  or  any  ono 
else.     But— hush — here  is  Miss  Moncton.' 

"  The  blood  crimsoned  my  face  a.-?  a  sudden  turning  in  the  wood- 
land path,  brought  me  within  a  few  paces  of  one  who  at  that 
moment  I  would  gladly  have  shunned.  To  retreat  was  impos- 
sible. I  raised  my  hat,  and  with  her  usual  frankness,  Margaret 
held  out  her  hand. 

"  I  pressed  it  respectfully  between  my  own  without  venturing 
to  raise  my  eyes  to  her  face.  She  perceived  my  confusion,  and 
doubtless  defined  the  cause. 

"  '  You  have  been  a  sad  truant,  Philip.  But  you  are  welcome 
home.     I,  for  one,  rejoice  to  see  my  dear  foster  brother  again.' 

"  '  Is  that  possible  ?'  I  stammered  out — '  Dear  Miss  Monc- 
ton, I  am  only  too  happy  to  be  allowed  to  plead  for  myself— I 
feel  that  I  have  sinned  against  my  good  and  generous  bene- 
factor ;  that  this  kindness  on  your  part,  is  wlioUy  undeserved. 
What  shall  I  do  to  regain  yo  r  good  opinion.' 

" '  Say  nothing  at  all  about  it,  Geoffrey.  It  was  a  boyish 
fault,  and  my  father  has  often  repented  that  he  treated  it  so 
seriously.  For  my  own  part,  I  do  not  blame  you  for  thrashing 
Theophilus  ;  had  I  been  provoked  in  the  same  manner,  and  a  lad 
of  yoiir  age,  I  would  have  done  it  myself.  My  quarrel  with 
you,  is  for  leaving  the  Park,  and  deserting  us  all,  before  a  recon- 
ciliation could  take  place.  You  knew  that  my  father's  anger 
was  like  iew  upon  the  grass,  evaporated  by  the  first  sunbeam. 


I 


k^ 


? 


nfmmmmmm. 


m 


mmm 


ita 


THR     iroKCTONi. 


and  that  we  loved  you  dearly — so  that  your  conduct  appoan 
iuoxciisiiblc  (111(1  heartless.' 

"  '  Oil,  do  not  Hay  that,  Miss  Monctoii.  "What  I  did  was 
perliictly  impulHivo,  without  thought  or  pretneditatiou.  I  could 
not  imagine  that  I  was  in  the  wrong,  and  Sir  Alexander's  con- 
duct appeared  to  mo  cruel  and  unjust ' 

"  '  Come  with  mo  to  the  Hall,  Mr.  Mornington,  and  I  will  plead 
your  cuso  to. this  cruel  tyrant.  My  eloquence,  with  papa,  is 
quite  irresistible— and  ho,  poor  dear,  is  more  ready  to  forgive, 
than  you  aro  to  a.sk  forgiveness.' 

"  This  was  said,  with  one  of  her  bewitching  smiles,  that  lighted 
up  like  a  passing  ounbeam  her  calm,  pale  face. 

"'You  are  too  good.  Miss  Monctou.  I  would  gladly  avail 
myself  of  your  invitation,  but  I  must  proceed  ou  ray  journey  to 
York  immediately  I  hope,  however,  soon  to  visit  Monctou 
again  ;  when  I  will,  with  Sir  Alexander's  permissiou,  explain 
my  conduct,  and  ask  his  pardon.' 

" '  I  hate  procrastination  in  these  matters,  which  pertain  to 
the  heart  and  conscience,'  said  Margaret.  '  My  motto,  wheu 
prompted  by  either,  to  perform  an  act  of  duty,  is — now ;  when 
we  seek  forgiveness  from  God,  or  from  a  friend,  wo  should  never 
defer  it  to  the  future,  for  thn  opportunity  once  neglected,  may 
never  again  be  ours.' 

"  This  was  said  with  some  severity.  A  sort  of  mental  coward- 
ice kept  me  back  and  hindered  mo  effectually  from  profiting  by 
her  advice.  Just  then,  I  felt  it  was  out  of  my  power  to  meet 
Sir  Alexander.  I  had  not  courage  to  enter  his  presence  in  my 
present  mood. 

"  '  Alice,"  said  Margaret,  turning  from  me  with  a  disappointed 
air,  '  what  has  kept  you  so  long  away  from  the  Hall  V 

"  '  I  grow  too  proud  to  visit  my  rich  friends,'  returned  Alice, 
in  a  tono  between  sarcasm  and  raillery. 

"  '  There  is  only  one  species  of  pride,  that  I  tolerate,*  said 
Margaret,  calmly — 'the  pride  of   worth.      That  pride  which 


,  r 


il; 


Mh 


I  your  conduct  appoan 

Eton.  What  I  did  was 
preiueditiUiou.  I  could 
id  Sir  Aloxuudcr's  con- 

■iilngton,  ami  I  will  plcud 

>loquuncc,  with  papa,  is 

more  ruudy  to  forgive, 

:iiiiig  smiles,  that  lighted 
0  fuco. 

I  would  gladly  avail 
iroceed  ou  my  journey  to 
soon  to  visit  Mouctou 
Icr's  permission,  explain 

atters,  which  pertain  to 
iret.  '  My  motto,  when 
of  duty,  is — now ;  when 
L  friend,  we  should  never 
lity  once  neglected,  may 

i  sort  of  mental  coward- 
;tually  from  profiting  by 
ut  of  ray  power  to  meet 
mter  his  presence  in  ray 

n  rae  with  a  disappointed 
3m  the  Hall  V 
friends,'  returued  Alice, 

le,  that  I  tolerate,'  said 
th.      That  pride  whicb 


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THE    M0KCT0N8. 


ns 


enables  a  good  man  to  struggle  successfully  against  the  arro. 
gance  of  the  world.' 

"  I  turned  to  the  speaker  with  admiration.  Had  she  been  born 
a  peasant,  Margaret  Moncton  would  have  possessed  the  dignity 
of  a  lady,  and  the  little  lecture  she  thought  fit  to  bestow  upon 
my  beautiful  wayward  sister,  was  dictated  by  the  same  noblo 
spirit 

"  '  We  should  never  be  proud,  Alice,  of  the  gifts  of  nature,  or 
fortune,  which  depend  upon  no  merit  of  our  own.  Beauty  and 
wealth  have  their  due  influence  in  the  world,  where  their  value 
is  greatly  overrated  ;  but  they  add  little  in  reality  to  the  pos- 
sessor. Deprived  of  both,  persons  of  little  moral  worth,  would 
relapse  into  their  original  insignificadce ;  while  those,  who 
improve  the  talents  entrusted  to  their  care  by  Providence,  pos- 
sess qualities  which  defy  the  power  of  change.  Such  persons 
can  alone  afford  to  be  proud,  yet,  these,  of  all  others,  make  the 
least  display  and  think  most  humbly  of  themselves.' 

This  was  said  playfully,  but  Alice  did  not  at  all  relish  the 
reproof ;  which,  though,  disregarded  by  her,  made  a  deep  impres- 
sion upon  me. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 


THE      MEETING. 


"The  next  morning  I  arrived  in  York,  and  hastened  to  the 
house  of  Mr.  Mornington.  I  found  the  dear  old  gentleman  ill 
in  bed,  but  in  his  usual  excellent  spirits. 

"  On  expressing  my  concern  for  his  illness,  he  laughed  at  my 
long  face  ;  told  me  it  was  a  trifle,  and  he  should  soon  be  well 
•gain.    Alas,  he  was  not  a  true  prophet  t    In  a  few  weeks  I 


lU 


THE     MONCTONS. 


followed  my  wortliy  friend  to  his  grave ;  and  found  myself  al 
the  age  of  one  ani  twenty,  my  own  master,  and  sole  heir  to  his 
large  property. 

"  The  joy  felt  at  this  unexpected  good  fortune  was  more  than 
counterbalanced  by  the  loss  of  the  generous  donor.  Gladly 
would  I  have  resigned  the  wealth  he  so  nobly  bequeathed  me, 
if  by  so  doing  I  could  have  recalled  the  dear  old  man  to  life. 
I  was  detained  for  several  months  in  York,  settling  my  affairs. 
I  lost  DO  time,  however,  in  acquainting  Cornelius,  by  letter,  of 
my  good  fortune.  I  took  this  opportunity  of  mentioning  my 
attachment  to  his  sister,  and  urged  him,  if  he  valued  my  happi- 
ness, to  plead  with  her  in  my  behalf.  His  answer,  though  kind, 
was  far  from  satisfactory  to  a  young  and  ardent  lover. 

"He  informed  me  that  Charlotte  was  not  insensible  to  my 
passion  ;  and  that  he  knew  that  she  entertained  for  me  a  sincere 
esteem  ;  but  it  was  entirely  out  of  her  power  to  accept  any 
offer  of  marriage  without  the  consent  of  her  guardian  ;  or  she 
would  lose  the  property  bequeathed  to  her  by  her  father  ;  who 
bad  left  this  stringent  clause  in  his  will. 

"For  himself,  he  continued,  nothing  would  ^ive  him  greater 
pleasure,  than  to  see  his  beloved  sister  united  to  a  man  whom 
he  loved,  and  whom  he  considered  worthy  of  her  regard ; 
particularly,  as  he  found  his  own  health  daily  declining,  and  was 
about  to  take  a  journey  to  the  south  of  France,  in  the  hope  of 
deriving  some  benefit  from  change  of  climate  and  scene. 

"  He  urged  me  to  return  immediately  to  Loudon  ;  to  plead 
my  own  cause  with  Charlotte,  and  to  spend  a  few  days  with 
him,  before  he  left  England  ;  as  he  felt,  that  it  was  more  than 
probable,  tliat  we  might  never  meet  again. 

"  The  last  mournful  sentence  decided  me,  and  the  next  morn- 
ing found  me  on  the  road  to  London  ;  and  I  determined  to  take 
Moncton  Park  in  my  route,  and  seek  a  reconciliation  with  Sir 
Alexander.  After  what  had  passed  between  me  and  Miss  Mono- 
ton,  1  flattered  myself  that  this  would  be  an  easy  matter. 


id  found  raysblf  ■! 
and  sole  heir  to  his 

;une  was  more  than 
lus  donor.  Gladly 
bly  bequeathed  tue, 
jar  old  man  to  life, 
settling  my  affairs, 
•nelius,  by  letter,  of 
r  of  mentioning  my 
le  valued  my  happi- 
nswcr,  though  kind, 
lent  lover, 
ot  insensible  to  my 
ned  for  me  a  sincere 
3wer  to  accept  any 
T  guardian  ;  or  she 
by  her  father  ;  who 

lid  ^ive  him  greater 
itcd  to  a  man  whom 
hy  of  her  regard ; 
y  declining,  and  was 
ance,  in  the  hope  of 
e  and  scene. 
)  Loudon  ;  to  plead 
iud  a  few  days  with 
it  it  was  more  than 

,  and  the  next  morn- 
I  determined  to  take 
:onciliatioji  with  Sir 
n  me  and  Miss  Mono- 
1  easy  matter. 


THE     HOKCTONS. 


k^l 


n5 


"  I  was  no  longer  a  poor  orphan  boy,  depeudent  upon  his 
bounty  ;  but  a  well-educated,  wealtiiy  man,  whose  fortune  wag 
equal,  if  not  greater  than  his  own.  There  was  no  favor  I 
could  ask,  or  that  he  could  bestow,  beyond  the  renewal  of  that 
friendship  which  formed  the  delight  of  ray  boyhood,  and  of 
which  I  had  been  so  suddenly  deprived. 

"  As  I  rode  up  the  noble  avenue  of  oaks  that  led  to  the  Hall, 
I  felt  so  confident  of  success,  so  vain  of  my  altered  fortunes,  so 
proud  of  the  noble  horse  I  rode,  that  my  spirits  grew  buoyant, 
and  my  cheeks  glowed  with  anticipated  pleasure. 

" '  Is  Sir  Alexander  at  home  V  1  eagerly  demanded  of  the 
liveried  servant  that  opened  the  door. 

" '  He  is,  sir.  What  name  shall  I  send  up  V  I  gave  him  my 
card,  and  was  shown  into  the  library,  while  be  carried  it  up  to 
bis  master. 

Years  had  fled  away,  since  I  last  stood  within  that  room,  a 
happy  thoughtless  boy.  How  vividly  did  every  book  and  pic- 
ture recall  the  blessed  hours  I  bad  passed  there,  with  Margaret 
and  Alice,  when  the  weather  was  wet,  and  we  could  not  play 
abroad.  It  was  in  this  noble  apartment,  with  its  carved  oak 
wainscoting  and  antique  windows  of  stained  glass,  in  which  we 
generally  held  our  revels,  turning  over  the  huge  folios  in  search 
of  pictures. 

"  There  was  the  Book  of  Martyrs,  with  all  its  revolting  details 
of  human  bigotry  ;  and  its  dreadful  exhibitions  of  human  endur- 
auce  amidst  scorn  and  agony.  On  these  we  gazed  in  mysterious 
awe ;  and  as  we  turned  over  the  horrible  pages,  we  said  to  one 
another,  '  that  we  were  glad  we  were  not  Christians  in  those 
days.' 

"  Then,  there  was  Descartes'  ancient  philosophy.  A  huge  tome, 
full  of  quaint  pictures  of  gods  and  goddesses,  and  angels  and 
devils,  on  which  we  were  never  tired  of  gassing  ;  infinitely  pre- 
ferring the  latter,  with  their  curious  tails  and  horns,  to  the 
former ;   whom  we    called,  '  Fat  lazy-looking    children    with 


116 


THE     M  0  N  C  T  0  N  S  . 


wings.'  'Goldsmith's  World.'  'Buffoii's  Natural  History/ 
and  the  whole  family  of  Encyclopedias,  with  their  numerous 
prints,  were  among  our  chief  favorites,  and  helped  to  beguile 
the  long  wet  day. 

"Sir  Alexander-  often  assisted  himself  at  these  exhibitions, 
and  seemed  as  much  pleased  v.'ith  showing  us  the  pictures  as  we 
were  in  looking  at  them. 

"  From  the  cherished  memories  of  former  years,  I  was  recalled 
by  the  entrance  of  the  servant,  who,  with  an  air  of  rude  fami- 
liarity, told  me — '  that  Sir  Alexander  Moncton  would  never  be 
at  home  to  Mister  Philip  Mornington.' 

"  Thunder-struck,  with  this  unexpected  blow,  and  writhing 
under  a  bitter  sense  of  humiliation,  I  atiected  an  air  of  con- 
temptuous indifference  and  tamed  to  depart ;  when  a  light  grasp 
was  laid  upon  my  arm,  and  I  encountered  the  dark  soul-lighted 
eyes  of  Margaret  Moncton,  moistened  with  tears,  and  fixed  upon 
me  with  a  gaze  of  mournful  interest. 

" '  Stay,  Mr.  Mornington.  Dear,  Philip  I  stay,  I  beseech  you, 
for  one  little  moment.' 

" '  Let  me  go.  Miss  Moncton.  You  deceived  me  into  the 
belief  that  my  reception  would  have  been  very  different — I  feel 
that  I  have  no  business  here.' 

"  '  That  was  your  own  fault,  in  deferring  the  rune  of  to-day,  to 
the  future  of  the  unknown  to-morrow,'  said  Margaret,  sadly. 
'  But  you  must  stay,  I  insist  upon  your  hearing  me  speak  a  few 
words  before  you  leave  this  house.' 

"  1  remained  silent  and  passive,  and  she  continued — '  There 
was  a  time,  Philip,  when  your  sister  Margaret  would  not  have 
asked  anything  of  you  in  vain.'  The  tears  flowed  fast  down 
her  pale  cheeks,  and  I  felt  the  small  hand  that  lay  upon  my  arm 
tremble  violently. 

" '  Dear  Miss  Moncton,'  I  said,  gently  leading  her  to  a  seat, 
and  taking  one  beside  her,  'you  must  make  some  allowantee 
tor  mortified  pride  and  wounded  feelings.     Time  has  not  ia  th« 


J 

a 

f( 

V 

e 

h 
I 

t 

fi 

h 
u 

y 

p 


Natural  History/ 
ti  their  numerous 
helped  to  beguile 

these  exhibitions, 
the  pictures  as  we 

ars,  I  was  recalled 
1  air  of  rude  farui- 
)u  would  never  be 

ow,  and  writhing 
ed  an  air  of  con- 
when  a  light  grasp 
dark  soul-lighted 
irs,  and  fixed  upon 

ay,  I  beseech  you, 

lived  me  into  the 
■y  different — I  feel 

B  rune  of  to-day,  to 

Margaret,  sadly. 

ag  me  speak  a  few 

;ontinued — '  There 
et  would  not  have 
flowed  fast  down 
b  lay  upon  my  arm 

[iiig  her  to  a  seat, 
I  some  allowantee 
ime  has  not  in  th« 


THE    UO  NOTONA. 


1« 


least  diminished  the  affection  and  respect  I  have  ever  felt  for 
you,  and  which  your  present  kindness  is  not  at  ail  likely  to  les- 
sen. I  should,  however,  be  deeply  concerned,  if  your  conde- 
scension should  draw  down  upon  you  the  displeasure  of  your 
father.' 

" '  Philip,  I  never  do  aught  which  I  should  be  ashamed  of  my 
father  witnessing.  Nothing  would  give  me  greater  pleasure, 
than  to  see  him  enter  this  room  ;  and  it  is  to  lead  you  to  him, 
that  brought  me  here.' 

"  '  He  has  once  forbidden  me  his  presence,'  I  cried,  rising  from 
my  seat — '  I  shall  seek  an  interview  with  him  no  more.' 

"  '  Let  me  seek  it  for  yon.' 

" '  What  good  would  it  answer  V 

"  '  Can  you  ask  that  question,  Mr.  Mornington  V  Remember 
all  you  owe  to  my  father's  kindness.  I  do  not  want  to  reproach 
you  with  benefits  which  he  felt  pleasure  in  conferring.  But 
surely,  some  feeling  of  gratitude  is  due  from  one  whom  he  loved 
for  so  many  years  as  a  son  ;  whom  I  am  certain  he  still  loves  ; 
whom,  if  he  could  oAce  see,  would  be  as  dear  to  him  as 
ever.' 

"  '  Could  I  feel  that  his  anger  was  just,  there  is  no  concession 
however  great,  Miss  Monton,  that  I  would  hesitate  to  make — 
I  love  and  revere  Sir  Alexander,  but  he  has  taken  up  idle  pre- 
judices against  me,  and  I  am  too  proud — obstinate,  if  you  will — 
to  ask  his  forgiveness  for  what  I  never  can  look  upon  as  a 
fault.' 

"  *  One  would  think,  Philip,  that  you  were  a  Moncton,  bo 
hard  and  obdurate  are  their  hearts,'  said  Margaret,  weeping 
afresh.  '  How  gladly  would  I  be  the  peacemaker,  and  reconcile 
you  to  each  other,  but  you  love  strife  for  its  own  sake — are  too 
proud  to  acknowledge  an  error.  Philip,'  she  cried,  passion- 
ately, '  do  yon  remember  my  mother  V 

"  She  had  struck  a  chord  that  always  vibrated  intensely  in 
my  heart.     'How  can   I  ever  forget  her?    And  yet,   Misg 

8* 


f 


Its 


THB     MO  NOTONS, 


■i  *'' 


Moncton— dear  Miss  Moncton— I  do  not  wouder  at  your  asking 
the  (juestion.' 

"  As  I  said  this  tears  rushed  to  my  own  eyes,  as  a  thousand 
sad  recollections  orowded  into  my  mind.  The  mournful  cham- 
ber— the  bed  of  death — the  calm,  sweet  face  of  the  expiring 
saint ;  and  her  last  solemn  injunction,  for  me  to  look  upon  her 
grave  when  I  came  to  be  a  man,  and  remember  her  who  had 
loved  me  as  a  son.  Had  I  done  this  ?  Oh,  no.  The  world 
had  obliterated  her  pure  and  holy  image  from  my\mind,  and  all 
her  tenderness  and  love  had  been  forgotten. 

"  I  stood  there  before  her  daughter,  whose  mind  yi»a  a  perfect 
transcript  of  her  own,  a  stricken,  self-condemned  creMure,  over- 
come by  emotions  which  I  struggled  in  vain  to  represal* 

"  Margaret  perceived  the  advantage  she  had  gained,  and 
taking  my  passive  hand  led  me  from  the  room. 

"  Slowly  wc  paced  up  the  marble  staircase  into  the  drawing- 
room,  where  we  found  Sir  Alexander  reading  at  a  table.  He 
did  not  raise  his  head  as  we  entered  ;  and  I  could  not  help 
remarking  the  great  change  that  a  few  years  had  effected  in  his 
appearance.  His  fine  chestnut  hair  was  nearly  gray,  his  cheeks 
had  lost  the  rich  vermilion  tint  which  had  always  given  such 
lustre  to  his  fine  dark  eyes,  and  clear  olive  complexion.  He 
was  much  thinner,  and  his  lofty  figure  had  taken  a  decided 
Btoop  between  the  shoulders.  The  handsome,  generous  baronet 
\vas  but  the  wreck  of  what  he  once  had  been. 

" '  Papa,'  said  Margaret,  stepping  forward,  and  laying  her 
small  white  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  *  I  have  taken  the  liberty 
of  introducing  a  very  old  friend.' 

"  The  Baronet  raised  his  eyes.  The  blood  rushed  into  his 
pale  face,  as  he  replied  with  great  asperity  of  look  and  tone, 
'  Margaret,  you  have  taken  an  unfair  advantage,  and  abused  the 
confidence  I  reposed  in  you  ;  I  did  not  expect  this  from 
yoQ.' 
" '  Dearest  father,  you  have  suffered  my  cousiu  Thophilus  tc 


ider  at  your  asking 

;ye8,  as  a  thousand 
he  mournful  chara- 
ice  of  the  expiring 
le  to  look  npon  her 
mber  her  who  had 
)h,  no.  The  world 
m  myVnind,  and  all 


mind  ^a  a  perfect 
ined  creMuro,  over- 
to  represal^ 
3  had  gained,  and 
m. 

36  into  the  drawing- 
Dg  at  a  table.  He 
d  I  conld  not  help 
s  had  effected  in  his 
iriy  gray,  his  cheeks 

always  given  such 
ve  complexion.  He 
id  taken  a  decided 
le,  generous  baronet 
1. 

ird,  and  laying  her 
e  taken  the  liberty 

3od  rushed  into  his 
y  of  look  and  tone, 
tage,  and  abused  the 
t  expect  this    from 

cousiu  Thophilus  tc 


THE     MON0TON8. 


Its 


prijiidico  yon  against  one  whom  you  once  loved — whom  roy  dear 
mother  loved  :  let  him  speak  for  himself." 

"  '  Weil,  sir,'  said  the  Baronet,  holding  out  his  hand,  '  what 
have  you  to  say  in  extenuation  for  your  past  conduct  ?  Yoo 
found  it  convenient,  no  doubt,  to  forget  an  old  friend.' 

" '  My  excellent,  kind  benefactor,'  I  cried,  pressing  his  hand 
warmly  between  my  own,  '  how  can  you  imagine  me  guilty  of 
such  base  ingratitude  ?' 

"  '  I  judge  your  feelings,  young  man,  by  deeds,  not  by  words. 
It  is  not  for  a  boyish  act  of  indiscretion  I  blame  you.  You 
thrashed  an  insolent  lad  of  your  own  age  for  insulting  you  ;  and 
in  your  place  I  would  have  done  the  same.  To  appease  his 
wounded  pride,  I  demanded  of  you  an  apology,  as  the  lad  was  my 
guest  and  near  kinsman — no  very  great  sacrifice  of  pride,  one 
would  have  thought,  to  a  penniless  pensioner  on  my  bounty. 
This,  you  audaciously  refused,  and,  without  waiting  for  my  anger 
to  cool  (for  I  was  not  acquainted  at  the  time  with  the  real  circum- 
stances of  the  case),  you  abandoned  your  home,  and  sought  pro- 
tection in  the  house  of  my  enemy — a  man  who  had  thwarted  me 
in  every  way  that  lay  in  his  power.  His  favor  you  gained  by 
traducing  your  benefactor  and  friend  ;  and  you  now  come  to 
me,  after  the  lapse  of  years,  to  make  a  boast  of  your  wealth. 
Philip  Mornington  I'  he  cried,  rising  from  bis  seat,  and  drawing 
himself  up  to  his  full  height,  '  I  loved  you  as  a  spirited,  inde- 
pendent boy  ;  I  despise  you  as  a  wealthy,  treacherous,  vaiu- 
glorious  man  1' 

" '  Dear  papa,'  said  Margaret,  greatly  agitated,  '  you  can  not 
mean  what  you  say.' 

"  '  I  do  mean  what  I  say.  My  words  are  plain  and  straight- 
forward ;  let  him  refute  them  if  he  can.' 

'' '  To  such  accusations  as  yon  have  brought  against  me.  Sir 
Alexander,  there  can  be  but  one  answer :  they  are  false  1  I 
will  not,  however,  demean  myself  by  attempting  to  vindicate 
my  conduct  from  such  base  calumnies,  but  leave  it  to  time  to 
convince  you  of  your  error,  and  prove  my  integrity.' 


I 


n 


180 


THE     MON0TON8. 


"  Without  waiting  for  his  reply,  I  left  the  room,  with  a  hearing 
as  haughty  and  inflexible  as  his  own,  and  flinging  myself  into 
the  saddle,  rode  from  the  Hall.  Disgnstcd  with  myself  for 
having  yielded  to  the  entreaties  of  my  amiable  foster-sister,  I 
could  not  master  my  indignation  sufficiently  to  call  at  the 
Lodge,  but  pursued  my  journey  to  town  with  a  heavy  heart. 

"Prom  Cornelius  and  his  sister  I  received  the  most  cordial  and 
affectionate  welcome  ;  but  my  pleasure  was  greatly  damped  by 
the  bad  state  of  my  friend's  health  :  he  loolied  so  thin  and  con- 
sumptive, that  I  apprehended  the  worst.  This  impression 
gradually  wore  off ;  but  a  few  months  confirmed  my  fears.  He 
was  to  commence  his  journey  to  Dover  early  the  next  morning  ; 
and  after  passing  a  delightful  evening  in  company  with  his  aunt 
and  Charlotte,  I  rose  to  take  leave,  as  I  well  knew  that  the  dear 
invalid  retired  at  an  early  hour  to  bed. 

" '  Do  not  go  to-night,  Philip,'  he  said.  '  It  is  the  last  we 
shall  spend  for  a  long  time  together.  I  wish  to  have  a  friendly 
chat  with  you  in  my  dressing-room.  Charlotte  will  make  one 
of  the  party.' 

"  In  a  few  minutes  we  were  comfortably  seated  in  the  snag 
little  room,  before  a  cheerful  fire.  My  friend  in  his  easy-chair, 
wrapped  in  his  dressing-gown,  and  my  own  beautiful  Charlotte 
seated  on  a  gaily-embroidered  ottoman  at  his  feet. 

"  ♦  Here,  I  feel  myself  at  home,'  said  Cornelius,  taking  a  hand 
of  each,  and  pressing  them  wurmly  between  his  own.  '  How 
much  I  dread  this  journey  ;  how  painful  it  is  to  part  with  all 
we  love  on  earth.' 

"  •  Dearest  brother,  you  will  return  to  us  quite  strong  and  well 
after  breathing  the  warm  air  of  the  South,'  said  Charlotte,  who 
never  could  be  brought  to  consider  her  brother  in  any  danger. 
'  When  we  meet  in  the  spring,  you  will  laugh  at  your  present 
fears,  and  we  shall  be  so  happy  together.' 

"  Cornelius  smiled  faintly.  '  I  hope  it  may  be  so,  my  sweet 
Charlotte  ;  to  that  hope  I  cling,  though  I  feel  it  daily  becoming 
more  feeble.    Isoi  would  I  leave  England,  did  I  not  consider  it 


wmmmmmmmmmm 


T  H  r     M  (»  N  0  T  0  N  8. 


m 


DID,  with  a  hearinfK 
inging  luysolf  into 
i  with  myself  for 
iblo  foster-sister,  I 
y  to  call  at  the 
a  heavy  heart, 
le  most  cordial  and 
^eatly  damped  by 
i  80  thin  and  con- 
This  impression 
led  my  feara.  He 
the  next  morning  ; 
]any  with  his  annt 
Icnew  that  the  dear 

'  It  is  the  last  we 
to  have  a  friendly 
)tte  will  make  one 

seated  in  the  snag 
in  his  easy-chair, 

)eautiful  Charlotte 

feet. 

lius,  taking  a  hand 
his  own.     '  How 

is  to  part  with  all 

lite  strong  and  well 
aid  Charlotte,  who 
her  in  any  danger. 
;h  at  your  present 

ly  be  so,  my  sweet 
il  it  daily  becoming 
id  I  not  consider  it 


my  duty  to  embrace  every  means  which  may  tend  to  restore  me 
to  health  mid  usefuliie.ss.  Hut  if  I  should  never  rotiirn,  my 
little  Laily  Mini,  the  world  will  run  on  ns  merrily  as  heietofore. 
I  should  only  lie  missed  by  a  few  faithful  hearts.' 

"  Poor  Charlotte  did  not  answer.  Her  head  sank  upon  hii) 
knee  ;  and  I  heard  the  tears,  one  by  one,  fall  upon  her  rich  silk 
dress. 

"  '  Do  not  anticipate  grief,  my  little  sister,'  he  said,  laying  hi.s 
hand  caressingly  upon  her  drooping  head.  '  I<et  us  bo  happy 
to-iiiglit,  fur  we  know  not  what  the  morrow  may  bring  forth.  I 
wiintcil  to  speak  to  you  and  Philip  upon  a  subject  very  near  my 
heart.' 

"  Alter  a  short  pause,  he  continued  with  a  lively,  cheerful 
voico — 

"  '  You  and  Philip  love  one  another  ;  nay,  do  not  turn  away, 
Charlotte  ;  there  ought  to  be  no  shame  in  confessing  a  virtuous 
attachnK  lit  to  a  worthy  object.' 

"  Charlotte  raised  her  eyes,  moist  with  tears,  and  tried  to 
smile  ;  l)ut  her  head  sank  back  to  its  resting-place,  and  her 
blushing  face  was  hidden  on  his  knee. 

"  '  Now  I  am  perfectly  satisfied  of  the  warmth  and  sincerity 
of  your  affections,  and  will  do  all  in  my  power  to  bring  them  to 
a  happy  issue  ;  but  there  are  some  difficulties  in  the  way  which 
must  be  lirst  surmounted,  before  you  can  hope  to  realize  your 
wishes.  You  have  wealth,  Philip,  and  moral  worth  ;  these 
ought  to  be  sufficient  to  satisfy  the  objections  of  the  most  fasti- 
dious. But  your  birth  is  obscure,  and  your  connexions  not  such 
us  most  old  families  would  wish  to  incorporate  with  their  own. 
You  will  ask  me  how  I  came  by  this  knowledge.  It  does  not 
matter  ;  for  these  worldly  objections  have  no  weight  with  me. 
It  was,  however,  told  to  me  by  one  well  accpiainted  with  your 
history — who,  as  guardian  to  Charlotte,  will,  I  fear,  never  con. 
gent  to  your  marriage.' 

" 'Tlieru  are  few  persons  witii  whom  i  am   siidicieiillv  iuti 


'I 


183 


TUB     M  O  N  0  r  O  N  ■  . 


n.ale  to  obtuiu  Huh  kuowlodge/  I  cried.     '  His  name- tell  hi« 

his  iittJne.' 

'•' Robert  M>uctoii-Sir  Alexunder'H  cousm  and  man  ot 

business.'  „,     ,  i  i  i , 

"  1  felt  a  cold  shudder  tliriU  througli  mo.  The  hopes  lately 
so  guy  and  buoyant  shrunk  back  faded  and  blackened  to  my 
heuit  '  Vet  why  should  I  fear  this  man  ?'  1  argued  ;  but  I  did 
fear  him-like  tlie  ghost  of  the  dead  Cssar  in  the  camp  of 
IJrutus-he  was  my  evil  genius.     I  turned  very  faint  and  asked 

for  a  glass  of  wnter, 

"  Cl.arlotte  gave  it  to  me  with  a  trembling  hand.  The  bro- 
thcr  and  sister  exchanged  glances  of  surprise  ;  suspicion  was 
aroused  by  my  emotion. 

'"Strange  !'  said  Charlotte,  musingly-' He  was  always  kind 
to  my  brother  and  me.     What  have  you  to  say  against  him  ?' 

"  Not  nmch— but  1  have  a  secret  antipathy— a  horror  of  this 
man,  though  I  never  saw  him  but  once,  and  that  when  quite  a 
boy '  I  liad  a  quarrel  with  his  son  when  a  lad,  which  produced 
a  rupture  between  Sir  Alexander  and  me,  and  neither  father 
nor  son  ever  forgave  the  imagined  injury.' 

"  Charlotte  looked  thoughtful.  It  was  evident  that  she  was 
fond  of  her  guardian  ;  while  Cornelias  continued  the  conversa- 
tion, which  was  to  me  both  painful  and  embarrassing. 

"  '  1  know  Mr.  Moucton  to  be  implacable  when  he  takes  a 
dislike,  and  considers  himself  Ul-used,  but  we  always  have 
regarded  him  as  a  just  and  honest  man.  The  circumstances  at 
which  you  have  hinted,  and  which  I  am  rathir  surprised,  that 
with  all  our  brotherly  intercourse,  you  never  mentioned  before, 
will  not  increase  your  chance  of  success  in  gaining  him  over  to 
your  wishes.  But  if  I  live,  Philip,  you  will  iiave  little  to  fear 
from  his  opposition.  Charlotte  and  myself  are  both  above  the 
common  prejudices  of  the  world,  and  prize  you  for  your  worth, 
which  we  consider  more  than  places  you  on  an  equality  with  us, 
ami  inv  little  sisttr  here  (and  ho  fondly  palled  her  head)  has 


T  H  F.      J»  0  N  f"  T  .1  V  «  , 


1H9 


is  name— tell  me 

sin  and  man  of 

The  hopes  lately 
blackoned  to  my 
rgued  ;  but  I  did 
in  the  camp  of 
'y  faint  and  asked 


hand.    The  bro- 
I ;  suspicion  was 


e  was  always  kind 
ly  against  him  ?' 
' — a  horror  of  this 
that  when  quite  u 
,d,  which  produced 
and  neither  father 

rident  that  she  was 
med  the  conversa- 
rrassing. 

Q  when  he  takes  a 
;  we  always  have 
le  circumstuncet>  at 
iner  surprised,  that 
mentioned  before, 
gaining  him  over  to 
i  iiave  little  to  fear 
are  both  above  the 
you  for  your  worth, 
MX  equality  with  us, 
,Ued  her  liead)  has 


too  liijjli  n  Honxo  of  lionor,  to  (■Mioiiiii.rf'  lioitcs  whidi  nho  never 
means  to  roaiizp.' 

"  1  took  ('iiariotte's  Imml  — our  cyc^  met.  Her  fiu-o  wns 
n^nin  hidden  on  her  l)rotlifi''s  iiiii'c  ;  |)iu  my  droo|)in>?  hrnrt 
began  to  revive,  and  I  tni'iiiMi  to  listiui  to  the  long  liiiran>,'n('  of 
my  good  friend  witli  mor(>  intcrpif  ninl  attontion,  ('speoiiilly,  as 
Charlotte's  small  wliite  htuui  rcnaiiifd  Hrmiy  daitjied  in  mine,  to 
repay  me  for  its  dullness  nnd  prolixity. 

"'Now,  my  advice  to  yon  liotli  is,  not  to  pntor  into  any 
engagement,  and  to  kcc])  tin-  innttcr  of  your  affections  known 
only  to  yourselves.  Confidi'iicc  reposed  in  a  third  party  is 
always  hazardous,  and  genonilly  Let  rayed.  Tliis  will  lull  Monc- 
ton's  suspicions,  for  lie  can  >riciiily  annoy  you,  should  you  marry 
Charlotte  without  his  consent,  l)i'foie  licr  minority  expires.  Her 
property,  whicli  is  oonsideruldc,  would  then  go  to  a  distant 
relation.* 

'"I  have  enough  to  support  us  hot  It  handsomely  —  why 
should  oiir  union  be  delayed  on  that  score  ?'  I  cried. 

"  '  Softly,  my  dear  friend.  Lovers  always  talk  in  that  strain 
—husbands  think  differently  Why  sliould  Charlotte  lose  her 
just  inheritance  to  gratify  the  ardor  of  your  passion  ?  Yon  are 
both  yonng— Charlotte,  far  loo  yonii!,'  to  marry.  Pour  years  is 
not  such  a  great  while  to  wait.  At  the  expiration  of  that  time 
you  can  meet  on  equal  terms,  without  making  such  an  enormnus 
sacrifice.     Am  I  not  riglit  V 

"We  said  he  wa.s,  and  tried  to  think  so,  but  I  am  certain 
that  in  the  estimation  of  both  his  listeners,  that  that  four  years 
which  seemed  to  him  so  short,  with  tis,  spread  over  a  period  as 
long  as  the  life  of  Methusalah.  We  tried  to  look  forward,  but 
shrunk  back  to  the  present.  Everything  in  prospective  looked 
cold,  blank— nay,  even  ugly  and  old,  at  the  end  of  the  lonj,'  vista 
of  four  years. 

"  We  promised,  however,  to  abide  by  his  advice.  I  was  sod 
and  low  spirited— and   Charlotte,  pleading  a  bad  headache, 


184 


THE     MOMCTONS. 


1 


kissed  her  brother,  received  one  from  me,  or  what  in  «,  esli- 
mation,  only  passed  for  one,  and  retired  in  tears,  and  I  felt  that 
thft  iov  of  mv  heart  had  vanished.  . .    j 

'A%o  not  look  so  grave.  Philip,'  said  my  worthy  tr.eud. 
'You  will  overcome' all  these  difflculties.' 
'<  I  shook  my  head  and  sighed  doubtfully. 
-I  am  sure  you  will.     I  have  a  presentiment  to  that    ffect. 
I  saw  you  in  a  dream  last  night,  surrounded  by  a  thousand  dan- 
gers    As  fast  as  you  got  out  of  some  trouble,  you  tell  into  a 
TL,  and  after  I  had  given  you  up  for  lo.t  you  were  reseued 
frou  the  fangs  of  a  tiger  by  a  mere  lad,  who  led  you  back  to 
Charlotte,  and  joined  your  hands.' 

.<  He  told  this  with  such  earnestness,  that  I,  who  was   no 
believer  in  signs  and  omens,  laughed  outright. 
"  He  looked  serious— almost  offended. 

"  '  You  forget,'  he  said,  '  that  when  man  draws  u-ar  his  ..n.l, 
God  often  opens  the  eyes  of  the  soul  and  reveals,  not  only  what 
is_but  what  shall  be.  Oh,  Philip,  you  who  are  so  eager  to 
win  the  affections  of  a  timid  girl,  how  can  you  be  ho  nwhttucnt 
to  the  love  of  God  ?'  _  _ 

»  '  Nervous  debility  has  rendered  you  superstitious,  Comciius. 
I  have  no  faith  in  the  religious  cant  of  the  present  dny,  u,  priest. 

or  priestcraft.' 

"  '  This  was  my  case  two  years  ago.     I  was  young  and  strong 
then      In  the  possession  of  wealth  and  all  those  temi.oral  b  es- 
slngs  for  which  wiser  and  better  men  have  to  toil  through  a 
long  life,  and  seldom  obtain.     The  world  was  before  me    and 
death  far  distant,  in  my  thoughts.    But  now,  the  world  is 
receding,  and  death  is  very  near.     You  start  1     Have  not  you 
discovered  that  truth  before  ?     Soon,  very  soon,  nothing  wiU 
remain  for  me,  but  that  blessed  hope  which  I  now  prize  a.s  the 
only  true  riches.     I   am  happy  in  the  prospect  which  I  know 
awaits  me,  and  consider  those  only  miserable  to  whom  God  is  a 
stranger,  and  the  love  of  the  Saviour  unknown.' 


1 


-warn 


■■Mllill 


what,  in  his  esli- 
s,  and  I  felt  that 

ly  worthy  friend. 


)ut  to  that  effect, 
y  a  tliousand  dan- 
le,  you  fell  into  a 
you  were  rescued 
o  led  you  back  to 

it  I,  who  was   no 


',raws  Mtiw  his  (^ntl, 
eals,  not  only  wliat 
10  are  so  oager  to 
ou  be  so  indifferent 

irstitious,  Cornchus. 
■esent  dny,  in  priestL^ 

vs  young  and  strong 
those  temporal  bles- 
e  to  toil  through  a 
was  before  me,  and 
now,  the  world  is 
rtl  Have  not  you 
'  soon,  nothing  will 
1  I  now  prize  as  the 
spect  which  I  know 
le  to  whom  God  is  a 
3wn.' 


T  H  K     M  O  X  0  T  O  N  S  . 


18^ 


"  His  woru3  affected  me  strangely,  and  yet  I  felt  that  they 
were  distasteful.  Sorrow  had  not  taught  me  the  knowledge  of 
self.  I  had  yet  io  learn  that  religion  alone  can  do  that.  My 
soul  was  grovelling  in  the  dust ;  my  thoughts  wholly  engrossed 
by  the  world.  Religion  was  to  me  a  well-invented  fable,  skill- 
fully constructed  and  admirably  told,  being  beautiful  and  artis- 
tic iu  a  literary  point  of  view,  but  altogether  too  shallow  to 
satisfy  the  reason  of  a  clevev  fellow  like  me.  Oh,  how  repug- 
nant are  its  pure  precepts  to  those  whose  hearts  are  blinded  by 
vanity  ;  who  live  but  for  the  pleasures  of  the  day,  and  never 
heed  the  to-morrow  in  the  skies. 

"  I  sat  down  at  a  table  near  my  friend,  and  began  hastily  to 
turn  over  the  pages  of  a  volume  that  lay  before  me.  It  con- 
tained the  admirable  writings  of  the  Rev.  Robert  Hall.  I  pet- 
tishly closed  the  book,  and  pushed  it  from  me. 

"  As  I  raised  my  head,  our  eyes  met.  He  evidently  read  my 
thoughts. 

"  '  I  do  not  wish  to  lecture  you,  Philip,  nor  do  I  condenni  you. 
Your  njind.  in  its  present  unawakeued  state,  cannot  understand 
the  sublime  truths  you  affect  to  despise.  The  blind  see  not ; 
they  cannot  comprehend  the  light,  and  we  are  not  surprised  that 
they  stumble  and  fall.  Hut  I  love  you  too  well,  Philip,  to  wisii 
you  to  remain  in  this  state  of  mental  darkness.  Read  the  Rible 
with  the  eyes  of  faith  ;  think  and  pray,  and  the  true  light  will 
dawn  upon  your  soul,  as  it  has  on  mine.  Let  not  the  ravings 
of  fanaticism,  nor  the  vulgarity  of  low  cant,  frighten  you  from 
the  enjoyment  of  the  highest  and  noblest  privilege  granted  to 
man — the  capacity  of  holding  converse  with  liis  God.  And,  now, 
farewell,  my  dear  friend.  I  sliall  see  you  again  in  tbe  morning  ; 
think  over  twice  what  I  have  said  to  you  before  you  go  to 
sleep.' 

"  1  retired  to  my  chamber,  but  not  to  rest.  I  sat  before  the 
fire,  musing  over,  and  trying  to  feel  an  interest  in,  the  advice  of 
my  friend;  I  knew  it  waj  good  ;  I  felt  it  was  right  and  very 


*. 


I 

Is 


IH(5 


T  II  F.     M  O  V  0  T  n  V  9  . 


uatural,  for  Corneliua,  in  his  diseased  state,  to  regard  it  as  a  sub- 
ject of  vital  iinportaace,  to  cherish  it  as  the  last  hope  that  could 
beguile  his  mind,  and  reconcile  him  to  the  awful  and  mysterious 
change  which  awaited  him.  'Poor  Cornelius,'  I  said,  'dying 
men  catch  at  straws  ;  will  your  straw  float  you  safely  across 
the  waves  of  the  dark  river  ?  I  fear  not.'  And  in  this  mood  I 
went  to  bed,  dreamt  of  Charlotte,  and  awoke  in  the  morning  to 
regret  the  long  years  which  must  intervene  before  she  could  bo 
mine." 


CHAPTER    XIX, 


Light  come,  light  go. 


Old  Pkotim. 

?HE  nc.'tt  day,  my  friend  bade  us  adieu.  Had  he  expres!»ed 
,  ,  t  v'ish  to  that  effect,  I  would  have  accompanied  him  to 
v.ie  Mouth- but  he  did  not,  and  we  parted,  never  to  meet  af -in. 
He  aied  ubroad,  and  Cliarlotte  became  the  inheritor  of  iiis  large 
fortune.  Her  grief  for  the  loss  f  her  brother  affected  her 
health  and  spirits  to  such  an  alarming  degree,  that  instant 
change  of  air  and  scene  was  recommended  by  her  physician,  and 
she  left  London  to  spend  some  months  with  her  aunt  on  the 
Continent.  I  would  have  gladly  made  one  in  their  party,  but 
this  she  forbade  me  to  do  in  the  most  positive  terms. 

"  I  fancied  that  her  manner  to  'me  had  grown  cold  and 
distant  during  the  separation  that  had  intervened  Iwtween  her 
brother's  death  and  the  severe  illness  that  followed  Mio  umiounce- 
ment  of  that  melancholy  event.  These  fears  were  coiiHnned  by 
a  long  and  very  prudential  letter  from  her  aunt,  entreating  me, 
as  a  mutual  friend,  not  to  follow  them  to  Italy,  as  it  might  be 
attended  by  unpleasant  results  to  Miss  Laurie,  who  was  still 
very  young-too  young,  in  her  estimation,  to  acknowledge  pnb- 


THB    MOKOTONB. 


181 


egarJ  it  as  a  sub- 
it  hope  that  could 
il  and  mysterious 
IS,'  I  said,  '  dying 
you  safely  across 
,nd  in  tliis  mood  1 
in  the  morning  to 
sfore  slie  could  ho 


Had  he  expressed 
companied  him  to 
iver  to  meet  aJ■■^in. 
heritor  of  iiis  large 
)ther  affected  her 
iffree,  that  instant 
her  physician,  and 
Il  hor  aunt  on  the 
in  their  party,  but 
6  terms. 

d  grown  cold  and 
vened  Ix'tween  her 
owed  tlio  iimioiuice- 
were  coi\finned  by 
,nnt,  entreating  me, 
;aly,  as  it  might  be 
mric,  who  was  still 
1  nckiiowledge  pub- 


licly an  accepted  lover  ;  that  ns  no  actual  engagement  existed 
between  us,  she  thought  it  most  advisable  for  both  parties  only 
to  regard  each  other  in  the  light  of  friends,  until  the  expiration 
of  the  time  which  would  make  Miss  Laurie  the  mistress  of  her 
ituud  and  fortune.  It  was  impossible  to  mistake  the  purport  of 
this  letter,  which  I  felt  certain  must  have  been  sanctioned  by 
her  niece.  Then,  and  not  until  then,  was  I  fully  aware  of  all 
1  iiad  lost  by  the  death  of  my  poor  friend. 

"Chivrlotte  had  repented  of  her  affection  for  the  low-born 
Philip  Mornington.  She  was  a  great  lieiress  now,  and  a  match 
for  the  first  nobleman  in  the  kingdom.  I  crushed  the  letter 
beneath  my  feet,  and  felt  within  my  breast  the  extinction  of 
hope. 

"  I  suspected  that  Robert  Moncton  and  his  son  were  at  the 
bottom  of  this  unexpected  movement ;  nor  was  I  mistaken.  It 
was  strange,  that  among  the  whole  range  of  my  acquaintance,  I 
had  never  been  introduced  to  this  rascal  and  bis  son,  or  met  him 
accidentally  at  any  place  of  public  resort.  They  effectually 
worked  my  ruin,  but  it  was  in  the  dark. 

"  The  loss  of  Charlotte  made  me  reckless  of  the  future.  I 
plunged  headlong  into  all  sorts  of  dissipation :  wine,  women, 
the  turf,  the  gaming-table,  by  turns  intoxicated  my  brain,  and 
engrossed  my  time  and  thoughts,  until  repeated  losses  to  an 
alarming  amount,  made  me  restless  and  miserable,  without  in 
the  least  checking  the  growing  evil.  I  had  forfeited  self  respect, 
and  with  it  the  moral  courage  to  resist  temptation. 

"  I  was  goaded  on  in  my  career  of  guilt  by  a  young  man  of 
fasciimtiug  person  and  manners,  but  of  depraved  habits  and 
broken  fortunes.  From  the  first  night  that  I  was  introduced  to 
William  Howard,  be  expressed  for  me  the  deepest  respect  and 
friendship,  and  haunted  me  subsequently  like  my  shadow.  He 
flattered  my  vanity  by  the  most  sedulous  attentions,  echoed  my 
sentiments,  hung  upon  my  words,  copied  my  style  of  dress,  and 
imitated  uiy  manners. 


w 


tr 


:i^ 


i 


r 


188 


THE     MONCTONS. 


"  Tlicse  arts  might  have  failed  iu  prodacing  the  desired  effect, 
hivd  he  not  woniid  himself  into  my  confidence,  by  appearing  to 
sympathize  in  my  mental  sufferings.  He  talked  of  Charlotte, 
and  endeavored  to  soothe  my  irritated  feelings,  by  expressing 
the  most  sanguine  hopes  of  my  ultimate  success;  and,  to  dissipate 
the  melancholy  that  preyed  upon  my  health  and  spirits,  he  led 
mo  by  degrees  to  mix  with  the  reckless  and  profligate,  and  to 
find  pleasure  in  the  society  of  individuals  whom  I  could  not 
respect,  and  from  whose  proximity  a  few  months  before  I  should 
have  sliruiik  with  disgust  and  aversion. 

"  A  yoiiiii,'  fellow  just  beyond  his  minority  is  easily  led  astray, 
piiiticularlv ,  when  he  has  wealth  at  his  command,  and  no  settled 
employment  or  profession  to  engage  his  time  and  thoughts,  and, 
worse  still,  no  religious  principles  to  guide  bim  in  his  perilous 
voyage  across  the  treacherous  ocean  of  life. 

"  Alas,  Geoffrey  1  I  chose  for  my  pilot  one  who  had  not 
only  ruined  himself,  but  caused  the  shipwreck  of  others,  superior 
in  prudence  and  intelligence,  to  the  man  who  now  trusted  to  his 
advice  and  believed  him  a  friend. 

"  When  I  look  back  to  that  disastrous  period  of  my  life,  my 
soul  shrinks  within  itself,  and  I  lament  my  madness  with  unceas- 
ing bitterness.  All  that  I  have  since  suffered,  appears  but  a  just 
retribution  for  those  three  years  of  vice  and  folly.  Little  did  I 
then  suspect,  that  my  quondam  friend  was  an  infamous  sharper, 
bribed  by  the  still  more  infamous  Robert  Moncton  to  lure  me 
to  destruction. 

"  In  spite  of  her  aunt's  prohibition,  I  had  continued  to  write 
to  Miss  Laurie  ;  at  first,  frequently,  seldom  many  days  elapsing 
between  lettet  and  letter,  but  to  my  surprise  and  indignation, 
not  one  of  my  communications  had  beeu  answered,  although 
breathing  the  most  ardent  attachment,  and  dictated  by  a  passion 
as  sincere  as  ever  animated  a  human  breast.  What  could  be 
the  cause  of  this  cruel  neglect?  I  called  repeatedly  at 
Mrs  's  house  in  town,  but  was  coustautly  told  by  the  old 


T  H  K     11  O  X  C  T  O  X  3  , 


189 


,he  desired  effect, 
by  appearing  to 
ed  of  Charlotte, 
8,  by  expressing 
and,  to  dissipate 
nd  spirits,  he  led 
irofligate,  and  to 
bom  I  could  not 
is  before  I  should 

easily  led  astray, 
id,  and  no  settled 
ad  thoughts,  and, 
im  in  his  perilous 

>ne  who  had  not 
jf  others,  superior 
now  trusted  to  his 

iod  of  my  life,  my 
iness  with  nnceas* 
appears  but  a  just 
oily.  Little  did  I 
infamous  sharper, 
)ncton  to  lure  me 

zontinned  to  write 
lany  days  elapsing 
e  and  indignation, 
nswered,  althon^h 
jtated  by  a  passion 
What  could  be 
led  repeatedly  at 
Lly  told  by  the  old 


housekeeper,  who  received  mc  very  coldly,  that  Miss  Laurie  and 
her  aunt  were  still  on  the  continent. 

"  As  long  as  this  miserable  state  of  uncertainty  continued,  I 
clung  to  hope,  and  maintained  tie  character  of  a  man  of  honor 
and  a  gentleman.  But  the  insidious  tempter  was  ever  at  hand, 
to  exaggerate  my  distress,  and  to  weaken  my  good  resolutions. 
Howard  laughed  at  my  constancy  to  a  false  mistress,  and  by 
degrees,  led  me  to  consider  myself  as  a  very  ill-used  man,  and 
Miss  Laurie  as  a  heartless  coquette. 

"  Two  years  had  elapsed  since  the  death  of  Cornelius  ;  and  I 
was  just  ready  to  accompany  a  party  of  gay  young  fellows  to 
Newmarket,  when  I  was  told  accidentally,  that  Miss  Laurie, 
the  great  heiress,  had  arrived  in  town,  and  the  young  men  were 
laughing  and  speculating  upon  the  chance  of  winning  her  and 
her  fortune. 

"  '  They  say  she's  a  beauty  1'  cried  one. 
"  '  Beauty  won't  pay  debts,'  said  another.     '  I  can't  afford  to 
marry  for  love.' 

" '  A  plain  girl  with  her  property  is  sure  to  be  handsome. 
Beauty  and  gold  are  too  much  to  fall  to  the  share  of  one  person. 
I  dare  say,  she's  only  passable.' 

'"Sour  grapes.  Hunter,'  said  Howard.     'You  know  that 

you  are  such  a  ugly  fellow,  that  no  woman,  with  or 

without  a  fortune,  would  take  you  for  better  or  worse.' 

" '  Better  is  out  of  the  question,  Howard,  and  he  can't  be 
well  worse,'  said  the  first  speaker.  '  But  I  should  like  to  know 
if  Miss  Laurie  is  really  the  beauty  they  say  she  is.  Money  is  a 
thing  to  possess— to  enjoy— to  get  rid  of.  But  beauty  is  a 
divinity.     I  may  covet  the  one— but  I  adore  the  other.' 

"  '  You  may  do  both  then,  at  a  humble  distance,  George. 
But  here's  Philip  Mornington,  can  satisfy  all  your  queries- he 
knows — and  used  to  feel  an  interest  in  the  young  lady.' 

"  To  hear  her  name  iu  such  company,  was  to  me  profanation. 
I  made  some  ungracious  reply  to  what  I  considered  an  imper^ 


I 

f  - 

I. 

V-' 

i'.. 


:% 


t 


190 


THE      MONCTONH 


tinent  o)«ervtttio..  of  Howard's,  und  feig..i..g  some  .mprobub  e 
,.cuse  for  absenting  myself  from  the  party,  I  tnrned  my  horses 
bea.'  and  rode  back  to  my  lodgings,  in  spite  of  several  large 
bets  that  I  had  pending  upon  a  favorite  horse. 

"  Charlotte  was  in  London,  and  I  could  not  rest  until  I  had 
learned  my  fAte  from  her  own  Hps. 

"I  hastened  to  her  aunt's  residence;  and,  contrary  to  my 
expectations,  on  sending  up  my  card,  I  was  instantly  admitted 

".^Shfrs^lne  in  the  drawing-room.  The  slight  girl  of 
seventeen  was  now  a  beautiful  and  graceful  woman  ;  mtelhgence 
b.-araing  from  her  eyes,  and  the  bloom  of  health  upon  her  cheeky 
As  I  approached  the  table  at  which  she  was  seated,  she  rose  to 
,ncct  me,  and  the  color  receded  so  fast  from  her  f«c«  .J**  ^ 
feared  she  would  faint,  and  instead  of  «^^^«f  "^  "ej^.h  h  r 
„s„al  frankness,  she  turned  away  her  head  and  burst  into 

'"'"you  may  imagine  my  distress-I  endeavored  to  take  her 
hand,  but  she  drew  proudly  back. 

» '  Is  this  Charlotte  ?'  .     .  „  u«v. 

"  .Rather  let  me  ask-is  this  Philip  Mornmgton-my  bro- 

*  ther's  friend?'  she  spoke  with  a  degree  of  severity  t^*t  "^ton- 

ished  me-' the  man  for  whom  I  once  entertamed  the  deepest 

respect  and  affection.' 

"  '  Which  implies  that  you  do  so  no  longer  ? 

"  '  You  have  rightly  guessed,'  «.!._, 

"  '  And  may  I  ask  Miss  Laurie  why  she  has  seen  fit  to  change 

the  opinion  she  once  entertained  ?'  t^        ^.  „ 

.'  'Mr   Momington,'  she  said,  firmly,  repressing  the  emotion 

which  convulsed  her  lips  and  glistened  in  her  eyes,  '  I  have  long 

wished  to  see  you,  to  hear  from  your  own  lips  an  explanation  of 

your  extraordinary  conduct,  and  though  this  ™««';«f  "f  J'J 

our  last.  I  could  lot  part  with  y.u  for  ever,  until      had  ecu- 

Tiuced  you  that  the  separation  was  effected  by  yourself. 


TUB     M  O  .V  C  T  0  N  S  . 


101 


oinc  improbable 
inied  my  horse's 
of  several  large 


rest  until 


contrary  to  my 
istantly  admitted 

[le  slight  girl  of 
man  ;  intelligence 
1  upon  her  cheek, 
jated,  she  rose  to 
I  her  face  that  I 
sing  me  with  her 
and   burst  into 

rored  to  take  her 


rnington — my  bro- 
jverity  that  aston- 
tained  the  deepest 


?' 


5  seen  fit  to  change 

essing  the  emotion 
eyes,  '  I  have  long 
s  an  explanation  of 
8  meeting  must  be 
r,  until  I  had  ecu- 
)y  yourself.* 


"  '  It  will  be  difficult  to  prove  that,'  I  said,  '  if  you  really 
SiMictioned  your  aunt's  letter,  and  were  privy  to  its  contents.' 

"  '  It  was  written  at  my  request,'  she  replied,  with  provoking 
coldness.  '  Mr.  Moncton's  suspicions  were  aroused,  and  your 
following  us  to  the  continent  would  have  confirmed  them,  and 
rendered  us  both  miserable.  But  my  motives  for  requesting  a 
temporary  separation,  were  fully  discussed  in  my  letter  which 
iici-niiipanied  the  one  written  by  my  aunt.  To  this  reasonable 
request  you  returned  no  answer,  nor,  in  fact,  to  several  subse- 
(|ucnt  letters  which  were  written  during  our  absence  abroad.' 

"  I  trembled  with  agitation  while  she  was  speaking,  and  I 
tear  that  she  misinterpreted  my  emotion. 

"  '  Good  Heavens  I'  I  exclaimed  at  last,  '  how  grossly  have  I 
deceived  myself  into  the  belief  that  you  never  wrote  to  me— that 
you  cast  me  from  you  without  one  word  of  pity  or  remorse..  I 
never  got  a  line  from  you,  Charlotte.  Your  aunt's  cruel  letter 
came  only  too  soon,  and  was  answered  too  promptly;  and  to  the 
many  I  have  written  to  you  since,  you  did  not  deign  a  reply,' 

"  '  They  never  reached  us,  Mr.  Mornington  ;  and  it  is  strange 
that  these  letters  (which  to  me  were,  at  .st,  matters  of  no 
small  importance)  should  be  the  only  ones  among  the  numbers 
addressed  to  us  by  other  friends,  that  miscarried.' 

'•  I  was  stung  by  the  incredulous  air  with  which  she  spoke — 
it  was  so  unlike  my  own  simple,  frank-hearted  Charlotte. 

"  '  Miss  Laurie,  you  doubt  my  word  V 

"  '  A  career  of  vice  and  folly,  Mr.  Mornington,  has  made  me 
doubt  your  character.  While  l" could  place  confidence  in  the  one 
I  never  suspected  deceit  in  the  other.' 

"  '  Your  silence,  Charlotte,  drove  me  to  desperation,  and 
iuvolved  mo  iu  the  disedpation  to  which  you  allude.' 

"  '  A  man  of  integrity  could  not  so  easily  be  warped  from  the 
path  of  duty:'  she  said  this  proudly.  '  1  cau  no  longer  love  one 
whom  I  have  ceased  to  respect,  whose  conduct,  for  the  last  two 
years,  lui.s  made  me  rej^ret  tlmt  wc  ever  mot.' 


1»2 


THB     1I0NGTON8, 


"  '  Yon  aiT  too  si'vere,  Miss  Laurie,'  and  I  fell  tlie  l)loo(l  rush 
to  my  face.     '  You  should  take  into  account  all  I  have  suffered 

for  your  sake.' 

'"You  found  a. strange  method  of  alleviating  those  suffer- 
ings, Philip.'  This  was  said  sadly,  »)ut  with  extreme  bitterness. 
'  Hiid  you  loved  or  cherished  me  in  your  memory,  you  never 
could  have  pursued  a  coarse  of  conduct  so  diametrically  oppo- 
site to  my  wishes.' 

"  This  was  a  home-thrust.  I  felt  like  a  guilty  and  con- 
demned creature,  debased  in  my  own  eyes,  and  humbled  before 

the  woman  1  adored. 

"  I  felt  that  it  was  useless  to  endeavor  to  defend  myself 
against  her  just  accusations  ;  yet,  I  could  not  part  with  her, 
without  one  struggle  more  for  forgiveness,  and  while  I  acknow- 
ledged and  bitterly  lamented  my  past  errors,  I  pleaded  for 
mercy  with  the  most  passionate  eloquence.  I  promised  to 
abjure  all  my  idle  companions  and  vicious  habits,  and  devote 
the  rest  of  my  life  entirely  to  her. 

"  She  listened  to  me  with  tearful  earnestness,  but  remained 
firm  to  her  purpose,  that  we  were  to  part  there  for  ever,  and 
only  remember  each  other  as  strangers. 

"  ller  obstinuey  rendered  me  desperate.  I  forgot  the  pro- 
vocation I  had  given  her  by  my  wicked  and  reckless  course.  I 
reproached  her  as  the  cause  of  all  my  crimes.  Accused  her  of 
fickleness  and  cruelty,  and  called  Heaven  to  witness,  how  little 
I  uoritcd  her  displeasure. 

"  Her  gentle  feminine  brow  was  overcast  ;  her  countenance 

grew  dark  and  stern. 

"  '  These  arc  awful  charges,  Mr.  Mornington.  Permit  me  to 
ask  you  a  few  questions,  in  my  turn,  and  answer  them  briefly 
and  without  evasion.' 

"  I  gazed  in  silent  astonishment  upon  her  kindling  face. 

" '  Are  you  in  the  habit  of  frequenting  the  gaming  table  ?— 
Yes,  or  no.' 


THB     MONOTONS. 


193 


jlt  tlie  bloml  rush 
II  1  huve  suffered 

ting  those  suffer- 
streme  bitterness, 
emory,  you  never 
iamotrically  oppo- 

guilty  and   con- 
l  humbled  before 

to  defend  myself 
lot  part  with  her, 
id  while  I  acknow- 
irs,  I  pleaded  for 
I  promised  to 
labits,  and  devote 

less,  but  remained 
here  for  ever,  and 

I  forgot  the  pro- 
reckless  course.     I 
Accused  her  of 
witness,  how  little 

; ;  her  countenance 

on.     Permit  me  to 
inswer  them  briefly 

kindling  face. 

he  gaining  table  ?— 


"  My  eyes  involuntarily  shrunk  from  hers. 

"  '  Tiie  ruce-coarso  V 

"  '  I  must  confess  to  both  these  charges,'  I  stumrnercd  out 
•  But ' 

"  '  For  such  conduct  there  can  •»"  no  excuse.  It  is  not  amid 
such  scenes  that  I  would  look  for  tue  man  I  love.' 

"  '  Cottsc,  Charlotte,  in  mercy  cease,  if  you  do  not  mean  to 
drive  me  nmd.  Some  enemy  has  poisoned  your  mind  against 
me.  Left  to  yourself,  you  could  not  condemn  me  in  this  cold, 
pitiles.s  nmnncr.' 

"  '  Your  own  lips  have  condemned  you,  Philip.'  She  stopped, 
passed  her  hand  across  her  brow,  as  if  in  sudden  pain,  and 
sighed  deeply. 

"  '  When  will  these  reproaches  end,  Charlotte  ?  Of  what  else 
do  you  accuse  me  ?' 

"  '  Is  what  I  have  said,  false  «»•  Uao  V  she  cried,  turning  sud- 
denly towards  me,  and  grasping  ssy  arm.  *  If  false,  clear  your- 
self.    If  true,  what  more  can  I  have  to  do  with  you  ?' 

" '  Alas,'  I  cried, '  it  is  but  too  true  1' 

" '  And  can  you  expect,  Mr.  Morninptoii,  that  any  virtuous, 
well-educated  woman  could  place  her  happiness  in  the  keeping 
of  one  who  has  shown  such  little  self-government ;  who  chooses 
for  his  associates  men  of  loose  morals  and  bad  character.  Your 
constant  companion  ami  bosom  friend  is  a  notorious  gambler, 
a  man  whose  society  is  scouted  by  all  honorable  men.  I  pity 
you,  Philip  ;  weep  for  you  ;  pray  for  you  ;  and  God  only  knows 
the  agony  which  this  hour  has  cost  me  ;  but  we  must  meet  as 
lovers  and  friends  no  more.' 

"  She  glided  from  the  room,  and  I  stood  for  some  minutes 
stupidly  staring  after  her,  with  the  horrible  consciousness  of 
having  exchanged  a  pearl  of  great  price,  for  the  base  coin  in 
which  pleasure  pays  her  deluded  followers,  and  only  felt  the 
inestimable  value  of  the  treasure  I  had  lost,  when  it  was  nc 
longer  in  my  power  to  recover  it. 


Il 


i  .i; 


(1: 


■m. 


194 


T  11  K     M  0  X  0  T  O  N  a  . 


'  I  rctuniod  to  the  coiupaiiy  1  hail  (luittcd.  I  betted  nnd 
lost  ;  j.lunged  madly  on  ;  staked  my  whole  property  oii  a  dos- 
perato  chance,  and  returned  from  the  races,  forsaken  by  my  gay 
companions,  a  heart-broken  and  ruhied  man. 

"  It  was  night  when  I  reached  London.  Not  wishing  to 
enconnlcr  any  of  my  late  iissociates,  I  entered  a  coffee-house 
seldom  frequented  by  men  of  their  class,  and  called  for  a  bottle 

of  wine. 

"  Tl\c  place  was  ill-lighted  and  solitary.  I  threw  myself  into 
a  far  corner  of  my  box,  and,  for  the  first  time— for  I  never  wiw 
a  drinker— tried  to  drown  care  in  the  intoxicating  bowl. 

"  The  wine,  instead  of  soothing,  only  increased  the  fever  of  my 
.  spirit,  and  I  began  to  review  with  bitterness  the  insanity  of  my 
conduct  for  the  last  few  months.  With  a  brain  on  Ore  with  thi! 
wine  I  continued  eagerly  to  swallow,  and  a  heart  as  dull  and 
cold  as  ice  from  recent  mortiticatiou  and  disappointment,  I  sank 
with  my  head  upon  the  table  into  a  sort  of  waking  trance,  con- 
scious of  surrounding  objects,  but  unable  to  rouse  myself  from 
the  stupor  which  held  every  faculty  in  its  leaden  grasp. 

"  Two  men  entered  the  box.  I  heard  one  say  to  the  other, 
in  a  voice  which  seemed  familiar. 

"  '  This  place  is  occupied,  we  had.  better  go  to  another.' 

"  '  The  fellow's  drunk,'  returned  his  companion,  '  and  may  be 
considered  »s  non  compos.  He  has  lost  all  knowledge  of  him- 
self, and  therefore  can  take  no  notice  of  ns.' 

"  Feeling  little  interest  in  anything  beyond  ray  own  misery,  I 
gave  no  signs  of  life  or  motion,  beyond  pressing  my  burning 
brow  more  tightly  against  my  folded  hands,  which  rested  on  the 

table. 

•'  '  So,  Mornington's  career  is  ended  at  last,  and  he  is  a  ruined 
man,'  said  the  elder  of  the  twain. 

•• '  Yes,  I  liave  settled  his  business  for  you  ;  and  as  my 
sncacss  has  been  great,  I  expect  my  reward  should  be  propor- 
tional)! y  .so.' 


iPiiiffflffiif '^'''^^''^"•^    '^'^^^ 


THK     MWNOTOHS 


i»r> 


I  betted  nnd 
ipcrty  oil  a  ilos- 
ikeii  by  my  gay 

Not  wishing  to 
I  a  coffeo-liouse 
lied  for  ft  bottle 

irew  myself  into 
-for  I  never  wiw 
ig  bowl. 

I  the  fever  of  my 
f,  iuHttuity  of  my 
I  on  fire  with  tin) 
}art  aa  dull  and 
ointment,  I  pank 
ling  trance,  coii- 
mse  myself  from 
n  grasp, 
lay  to  the  other, 

■,o  another.' 

on,  '  and  may  be 

lowlodge  of  hini- 

ay  own  misery,  I 
sing  my  burning 
lich  rested  on  the 

md  he  is  a  ruined 

on  ;  and  aa  my 
hould  be  propor- 


"  '  I  am  remly  to  fnlliil  my  l>r..inise.  but  cxpwt  iioliiiiig  mow. 
You  have  bt-en  well  paid  by  your  dupe.  He  h«H  nmlized  tlu- 
old  proverb-Light  come,  light  go.  1  thought  he  would  have 
given  you  more  trouble.     Yours,  Howard,  has  been  an  euHy 

victory.' 

"  '  Hang  the  foolish  fellow!'  cried  my  quondam  friend  ;  '  I  feel 
some  ((ualms  of  coiiBcionce  about  him— he  was  so  warm-hearted 
uud  generous— 80  unsuRpieious,  that  I  feel  as  if  I  hud  been 
guilty  of  a  moral  murder.  And  what.  Mr.  Mouctou,  must  be 
your  feelings— your  liatred  to  the  poor  young  man  is  almoitt 
gratuitous,  when  it  appears  that  you  are  personally  unknown  to 

euch  other.' 

"  '  He  is  the  son  of  my  worst  enemy,  and  1  will  pursue  him  to 

death.' 

" '  He  will  spare  you  the  trouble,  if  I  read  my  man  rightly. 
He  will  not  submit  to  this  sudden  change  of  fortune  with  stoical 
Indifference,  but  will  finish  a  career  of  folly  with  an  act  of 
madness.' 

"  '  Commit  suicide  !' 

"  '  Ay,  put  a  pistol  to  his  head.  He  is  an  infidel,  and  will 
not  be  scared  from  his  purpose  by  any  fear  of  an  hereafter.' 

"  '  Bring  me  that  piece  of  news  to-morrow,  Howard,  and  it 
will  be  something  to  stake  at  hazard  before  night.' 

"  He  left  the  box  ;  I  rose  to  prevent  him,  but  the  opportu- 
nity of  revenge  was  lost.  The  younger  scoundrel  remained 
behind  to  settle  with  the  waiter  ;  as  he  turned  round  I  con- 
fronted and  stared  him  full  in  the  face.  He  pretended  not  to 
know  who  I  was. 

"  '  Fellow,  let  me  pass  !' 

"  '  Never  !  until  you  have  received  the  just  reward  of  your 
treachery.  Yon  are  a  mean,  contemptible  wretch— the  base 
hireling  of  a  baser  villain.  I  will  prosecute  you  both  for  enter- 
ing into  a  conspiracy  against  me.' 

"  '  You  had  better  let  it  alone,'  he  said,  in  a  hoarse  whisper, 


J 


v,_ 


IM 


TM  K     M  i<  N  <•  r  u  M  »  , 


I-* 


*  You  are  a  diHappoiiituil  iiml  tlcs|icruU'  man.  Xn  siiinililc  |H'r> 
HUH  will  liHtun  to  coiii|iliiiiits  iiiiulu  by  a  drunken,  brukun'duwn 
•pcndtlirift  und  gHuiblvr.' 

"  '  Liar  I'  I  cried,  looinK  nil  ttuU'-uontrol,  '  wlifu  did  you  t-vor 
•ee  luo  drunk,  or  knew  me  guilty  ol  one  dislionoiublo  uel  V 

"  '  You  were  ulways  too  great  a  fool,  Morniiigton,  to  tuko 
caro  of  yourelf,  und  you  arc  not  able,  at  tiuH  nioincnt,  to  Htand 
■teady.  Be  that,  however,  as  it  may,  I  never  retract  my 
words— if  you  require  salisfaction,   you  know   wliero   to   find 


me. 


You 


" '  1  will  neither  meet  nor  treat  you  aH  a  gentlemiin. 
are  beneuth  contempt.' 

"  '  The  Hou  of  a  drunken  huntsman  has  a  greater  clnini  to 
gentility,'  sneered  the  sharper,  l)urHtiug  into  an  insulting  laugh. 
'  Your  mother  may,  perhaps,  have  given  you  an  indirect  eiaini 
to  a  higher  descent.' 

"  This  taunt  Htung  me  to  madness,  and  sobered  me  in  a 
moment.  I  ilung  myself  heudloing  upon  him.  1  was  young  and 
Btroug — the  attack  unexpected,  he  fell  heavily  to  the  ground 
In  my  fury  I  spat  upon  him,  and  trampled  him  beneath  my  feet. 
Death,  1  felt  was  loo  honorable  a  punishment  for  such  a 
contemptible  villain.  I  would  not  have  killed  him  though  cer- 
tain that  no  punishment  would  follow  the  act. 

"The  people  of  the  house  interfered.  I  was  taken  into 
custody  and  kept  in  durance  vile  until  the  following  morning  ; 
but  as  no  one  appeared  to  make  any  charge  against  me,  I  was 
released,  with  a  severe  reprimand  from  the  police  magistrate,  and 
suffered  to  return  home. 

"  Home — I  had  now  no  home — about  one  hundred  pounds 
was  all  that  remained  to  me  of  my  fine  property  when  my  debts, 
falsely  termed  debts  of  honor,  were  paid,  my  lodgings  settled 
for,  and  my  servant  discharged. 

"  My  disgrace  had  not  yet  reached  the  home  of  my  childhood. 
A  state  of  mental  suffering  brought  on  a  low  fever.     I  was 


n,i:- 


\ii  si'iifiililc  iii'r* 
ukuii,  brukuifduwii 

wUvii  «litl  yuu  L'vur 
iioMiblo  uet  V 
>riiiiigtun,  tu  tuko 
I  nioinciit,  to  stand 
never  retract  my 
>w   where   to   find 

gentlenmii.     You 

i  greater  claim  to 
an  insulting  luugli. 
t  an  indirect  claim 

sobered  me  in  a 
1  wua  young  und 
ily  to  tiie  ground 
u  beneath  my  feet, 
imeut  for  such  a 
d  him  thougli  eer- 

I  was   taken   into 

ollowiug  morning  ; 

against  me,  I  was 

ice  magistrate,  and 

le  hundred  pouuds 
rty  when  my  debts, 
ly  lodgings  settled 

Be  of  my  childhood, 
low  fever.     I  was 


T  H  k;     M  '>  N  t!  T  11  N  rt 


\\n 


Heited  with  an  indescribable  longing,  uu  aching  of  the  heart  to 
«ud  my  days  in  my  native  village. 

"  Pride  in  vain  combated  with  this  feeling.  It  resisted  all 
the  arguments  of  reason  and  common  ^rnse.  Nature  triumphed 
'—and  a  few  days  saw  me  once  more  nnder  the  shadow  of  the 
great  oak  that  canopied  our  lowly  dwelling. 


CHAPTER    XX. 

A  t.  I  0  K  . 

"As  1  approached  the  cottage  <loor,  my  attention  wns 
arrested  by  a  low,  mournful  voice,  singing  in  sad  and  subdued 
tones,  a  ditty  which  seemed  the  spontaneous  outpouring  of  a 
wounded  spirit.  The  words  were  several  times  repeated,  and  I 
noted  them  down  as  I  leunt  upon  the  trnnk  of  the  old  tree. 
Out  of  sight,  but  within  a  few  feet  of  the  songstress,  whose  face 
was  hidden  from  mo  by  the  thick  foliage  of  the  glorious  old 
tree,  in  whose  broad-spreading  branches,  I  had  played  and 
frolicked  when  a  boy. 

THE  SONG. 

" '  I  once  was  happy,  blithe  and  gay, 

No  maiden's  lieart  was  half  so  light : 
I  cannot  sing,  for  well  a-day  ! 
My  morn  of  bliss  Is  quenched  in  nlglit 

1  cannot  weep— my  brain  is  dry. 
Deep  woe  usurps  the  voice  of  mirth 

Th«  Bunsbine  of  youth's  cloudless  sky 
Has  faded  from  this  goodly  earth. 

My  soul  Is  wrapped  in  midnight  gloom, 
And  all  that  charmed  my  heart  before, 

Droops  earthward  to  the  silent  tomb, 
Where  darkness  dwells  for  eveimoco.' 


198 


THE     M  O  N  CT  i>  N  S  . 


"The  voice  coasod. 

"  1  stepped  from  my  liitliug-pluce.  Alice  rose  from  tiie  beach 
beside  the  door  ;  the  work  on  which  she  was  employed  fell  from 
her  hand,  and  phe  stood  before  me  wild  and  wan— the  faded 
spectre  of  past  happiness  and  beauty. 

"  '  Good  Heavens,  Alice  1     Can  this  be  you  V 

" '  I  may  return  the  compliment,'  she  said,  witli  a  ghastly 
smile.  '  Can  this  be  Philip  ?  Misery  has  not  been  partial,  or 
your  brow  wears  its  mark  in  vain.' 

"  '  Unhappy  sister  of  an  unhappy  brother,'  I  cried,  folding 
her  passive  form  to  my  heart,  '  I  need  not  ask  w!iy  you  are 
altered  thus.' 

"  The  fire  that  had  been  burning  in  my  brain  for  some  weeks 
yielded  to  softer  emotions.  My  head  sunk  upon  her  shoulder, 
and  I  wept  long  and  bitterly. 

"  Alice  regarded  me  with  a  curious  and  mournful  glance,  but 
shed  no  tears. 

"  '  Alice  I    That  villain  has  deceived  you  ?' 

"  She  shook  her  head. 

"  '  It  is  useless  to  deny  facts  so  apparent.  Do  you  love  him 
still  ?' 

"  She  sighed  deeply.  '  Yes,  Philip.  But  he  has  ceased  to 
love  me.' 

" '  Deserted  you  V 

"  Her  lip  quivered.    She  was  silent. 

'"The  villain  I  his  life  shall  answer  for  the  wrong  he  has 
done  you  I' 

"  The  blood  rushed  to  her  pale,  wasted  cheeks,  her  eyes  flashed 
upon  me  with  unnatural  brilliancy,  and  grasping  my  arm.  she 
fiercely  and  vehemently  replied. 

"  '  Utter  that  threat  but  once  again,  and  we  become  enemies 
for  life.  If  he  has  injured  me  and  made  nie  the  wreck  you  see 
— it  is  not  in  the  way  you  think.  To  destroy  him  would  drive 
me  to  despair.  It  would  force  me  to  commit  an  act  of  desper- 
ation— I  will  suflFer  no  one  to  interfere  between  me  and  the  man 


1 


rose  from  tlie  beach 
i  employed  fell  from 
,nd  wan — the  faded 

ou?' 

aid,  with  a  ghastly 

lot  been  partial,  or 

er,'  I  cried,  folding 
t  ask  w!iy  you  are 

rain  for  some  weeks 
upon  her  shoulder, 

nournful  glance,  but 

V 

Do  you  love  him 

it  he  has  ceased  to 


the  wrong  he  has 

jeks,  her  eyes  flashed 
asping  my  arm.  she 

we  become  enemies 
e  the  wreck  you  see 
•oy  him  would  drive 
nit  an  act  of  desper- 
een  me  and  the  man 


T  H  K     M  O  N  0  r  O  S  8  . 


199 


I  love.  I  am  strong  enough  to  take  my  own  pan— to  avougt 
myself,  if  need  be.  1  can  bear  my  own  grief  in  silence,  and 
therefore  beg  that  yon  will  spare  your  sympathy  for  those  who 
weep  and  pule  over  misfortune.  I  would  rather  be  reproached 
than  pitied  for  sorrows  that  I  draw  upon  myself.' 

"She  sat  down  trembling  with  excitement,  and  tried  to 
resume  her  former  occupation.  Presently  the  needle  dropped 
from  her  hand,  and  she  looked  wistfully  up  into  my  face, 

"  '  Philip,  what  brought  you  here  V 

"  '  An  unwelcome  visitor,  I  fear.' 

"  '  Perhaps  so.  People  always  come  at  the  worst  times,  and 
whau  they  are  least  wanted.' 

"'Do  you  include  your  brother  in  that, sweeping  common- 
place term— has  he  become  to  you  as  one  of  the  people  ?     Ah, 

Alioe.' 

"  '  We  have  been  no  more  to  each  other  for  the  last  three 
years,  Philip.  Your  absence  and  long  silence  made  me  forget 
that  I  had  a  brother.  Few  <!0uld  suppose  it,  from  the  little 
interest  you  ever  expressed  for  me.' 

" '  I  did  not  think  of  you,  or  love  you  the  less.' 
"  '  Mere  words.    Love  cannot  brook  long  separation  from  the 
object  beloved.     It  withers  beneath  neglect,  and  without  per- 
sonal intercourse  droops  and  dies.     While  you  were  happy  and 
prosperous  you  never  came  near  us  ;  and  I  repeat  again,— what 

brings  you  now  V 

"  '  I  have  been  unfortunate,  Alice  ;  the  dupe  of  villains  who 
have  robbed  me  of  my  property,  while  my  own  folly  has  deprived 
me  of  self-respect  and  peace  of  mind.  Ill  and  heart-sick,  I 
could  not  resist  the  strong  desire  to  return  to  my  native  place 

to  die.' 

"  •  There  is  no  peace  here,  Philip,'  she  said,  in  a  low  soft  voice. 
'  I  too,  wonld  fain  lie  down  on  the  lap  of  mother  earth  and  for- 
get my  misery.  But  we  are  too  young— too  wretched  to  die. 
Death  comes  to  the  good  and  happy,  and  cuts  down  the  strong 


200 


T  H  K     M  0  N  0  T  O  X  3  . 


i 


man  like  the  flower  of  the  field— but  flies  the  wretcli  who  courts 
it,  ond  j,'rins  in  gliastly  mockery  on  the  couch  of  woe.  Take  my 
advice,  Philip  Mornington,  lose  no  time  in  leaving  this  place. 
Here,  danger  besets  you  on  every  side.' 

"  '  Wiiy,  Alice,  do  you  think  I  fear  the  puny  arm  of  Theophi- 
lus  Moncton.    The  base  betrayer  of  innocence.' 

"  '  Why  Theophilus.  Spare  your  reproaches,  Philip  ;  we  shall 
quarrel  seriously  if  you  mention  that  name  with  disrespect  to 
me— I  cannot,  and  will  not  bear  it.  It  was  not  him  I  meant. 
You  have  oflfendcd  our  grandmother  by  your  long  absence. 
Dinah  loves  you  not.  It  is  her  anger  I  would  warn  you  to 
shun.' 

"  '  And  do  you  think,  I  am  such  a  coward,  as  to  tremble  and 
fly  from  the  uiaiice  of  a  peevish  old  granny  V 

"  '  You  laugh  at  my  warning,  Philip.  You  may  repent  your 
rashness  when  too  late.  The  fang  of  the  serpent  is  not  deadened 
by  ago,  and  the  rancor  in  the  human  heart  seldom  diminishes 
with  years.  Dinah  never  loved  you,  and  absence  has  not  increased 
the  strength  of  her  affection.' 

"'I  um  not  come  to  solicit  charity,  Alice.'  I  have  still 
enough  to  pay  the  old  woman  handsomely  for  board  and  lodging 
until  my  health  returns,  or  death  terminates  my  sufferings.  If 
Dinah  takes  me — a  fact  I  do  not  doubt — she  loves  money 
'  Where  is  she  now  ?" 

"  '  In  the  village,  I  expect  her  in  every  minute.' 

"  'And  Miss  Moncton  ?'  I  said,  hesitating,  and  lowering  my 
voice.     '  How  is  she  V 

"  '  I  don't  know,'  returned  Alice,  carelnssly,  '  the  Hall  is  no 
longer  open  to  me.' 

'"That  tells  its  own  tale,'  said  1  sorrowfully. 

The  tale  may  be  false,  in  spite  of  probability,'  returned  she, 
fiercely.  '  No  one  should  dare  openly  to  condenm  another  with- 
out .sufficient  evidence.' 

"  '  Thpy  need  not  go  far  for  that.' 


T  H  K      Jl  O  N  C  T  (»  S  a 


301 


e  wretcli  wbo  fOiirls 

h  of  woe.     Take  my 

leaving  this  place. 

my  arm  of  Theophi- 

ice.' 

les,  Philip  ;  we  shall 

!  with  disrespect  to 

18  not  him  I  meant. 

your   long   absence. 

would  warn  you  to 

d,  as  to  tremble  and 

?' 

ou  may  repent  your 

pent  is  not  deadened 

t  seldom  diminishes 

ice  has  not  increased 

lice.'  I  have  still 
>r  board  and  lodging 
»  my  sufferings.  If 
— she   loves  money 

nute.' 

g,  and  lowering  my 

sly,  '  the  Hall  is  no 

illy. 

bility,'  returned  she, 

idenni  another  with- 


"  '  That  is  your  opinion.' 
"  '  On  most  conclusive  evidence. 
" 'How  charitable.' 
"  '  How  true,  Alice.' 

"  '  False  as  the  world.  As  you,  as  every  one  is  to  the  unfor- 
tunate,' she  c.i.-d,  with  indignation  in  her  eyes  and  scorn  upon 
her  lip  '  But  here  is  Dinah— Dinah,  whom  you  consider  unfeel- 
in-  and  cruti.  She  knows  me,  and  loves  me  better  than  you  do. 
She  does  not  join  with  a  parcel  of  conventional  sneaks  to  con- 
demn me.'  ,  ,  ,  ^  u  - 
"  As  she  ceased  speaking,  Dinah  entered  with  a  basket  on  her 
arm  After  the  first  surprise  at  my  unexpected  and  unwelcome 
a,.pparance  was  over,  she  accosted  me  with  more  amenity  of 
look  and  manner  than  1  ever  before  hnew  her  to  assume. 

"How  are  you,  Philip?  you  look  ill.     Suppose  yon  have 
got  into  some  trouble,  or  we  should  not  be  honored  by  a  visit  ?' 
" '  You  are  right,  in  part,  grandmother.     I  have  been  sick 
for  some  days,  and  have  come  home  for  change  of  air  and  good 

nursing.' 

"  I  put  a  handful  of  goM  into  her  lep.     '  You  see  I  am  willing 
and  able  to  pay  for  the  trouble  I  give.    When  this  is  gone,  you 

cnn  have  more.' 

"  '  Money  is  always  welcome— more  welcome  often  than  those 
that  bring  it.  All  things  considered,  however,  I  am  glad  to  see 
yon  When  relatives  are  too  long  separated,  they  become 
strangers  to  each  other.  Alice  and  I  had  concluded  that  you 
only  regarded  us  as  such.  The  sight  of  yon  will  renew  the  old 
tic  of  kindred,  and  make  yon  one  of  us  again.  Quick,  Alice, 
get  your  brother  some  supper  j  he  must  be  hungry  after  his 

long  journey.'  t  *   i 

" '  I  am  in  no  need  ;  Alice,  do  not  trouble  yourself ;  I  teel 

too  ill  to  eat.    I  wUl  go  to  bed  if  you  please.    All  I  want  at 

present  is  rat.^  .     j  ..     ti. 

"Dinah,  who  vas  passing  the  gold  from  one  hand  to  the 

9* 


It' 


);; 


20i 


T  H  C    M  I)  X  C  r  O  X  ri  , 


Other,  aad  gazing  upon  it  with  infinite  satisfaction,  suddenly 
loolced  up  and  repeated  the  last  word  after  uie,  wiiii  peculiar 
cni{)hasi8. 

"  '  Rest !  Who  rests  in  this  world  ?  Even  sleep  is  not  rest ; 
the  body  sleeps,  but  the  soul  toils  ou,  ou,  on,  for  ever.  Tliere  is 
no  such  thing  as  rest.  If  I  thought  so,  I  would  put  un  end  tc 
my  existence  to-morrow— I  would;  and  meet  deutli  us  a 
liberator  from  the  vexatious  turmoils  of  life.' 

"There  was  something  in  these  words  that  tilled  my  mind 
with  an  indescribable  horror— a  perfect  dread  of  endk-ss  dura- 
tion. I  had  always  looked  upon  the  grave  as  a  place  of  rest— a 
haven  of  peace  from  the  cares  hi  life  ;  that  old  raven,  with  litr 
dismal  croaking,  ha<l  banished  ^'^e  pleasing  illusion,  and  made 
me  nervously  sensitive  to  the  tenors  of  a  living,  conscious  eter- 
nity. Whilst  undressing  to  go  to  bed,  I  was  seized  with  violent 
shivering  fits,  and  before  morning  was  delirious,  and  in  a  high 
fever. 

"  I  had  never  suffered  from  severe  illness  before  ;  I  had  often 
been  afflicted  in  mind,  but  not  in  body.  I  now  had  to  endure 
the  horrors  of  both  combined.  For  the  lirst  fortnight  I  was  too 
ill  to  think.  I  was  in  the  condition  of  the  unfortunate  pivtri- 
arch,  who  in  the  morning  exclaimed,  '  Would  God  it  were  night  I 
and  when  night  came,  reversed  the  feverish  hope. 

"There  wei'e  moments,  however,  doi-ing  the  burning  hours  of 
these  sleepless  nights,  when  the  crimes  of  the  past,  and  the 
uncertainty  of  the  future,  rushed  before  me  in  terrible  distinct- 
ness ;  when  I  tried  to  pray  mi.  could  not,  and  sougnt  comfort 
from  the  Word  of  God,  and  found  every  line  a  condemnation. 
Oh,  these  dreadful  days  and  nights,  when  I  lay  a  hopeless,  self- 
condemned  expectant  of  misery,  shuddering  on  the  awful  brink 
of  eternity,  shrieking  to  the  Almighty  Father  for  peace,  and 
finding  none  ;  seeking  for  rest  with  strong  cries  and  tears,  and 
being  repaid  with  ten-fold  agony.  May  I  never  again  suffer  in 
flesh  and  spirit  what  I  then  endured  1 


III 


■iiiiiiiMMiiiiiiriiittiii^^ 


TH  B      M  O  N  C  Til  X  S. 


2oa 


[i.-ilac-tioii,  smideiilj 
ine,  with  peculiar 

J  sleep  is  not  rest ; 
for  ever.  There  is 
uld  put  uii  end  tc 
neet   deiuli    u.s    « 

at  filled  my  inind 
i  of  endk'.ss  diiru- 

a  place  of  rt-st — it 
Id  raven,  witii  her 
illusion,  and  made 
ng,  conscious  eter- 
seized  witii  violent 
ious,  and  in  a  high 

efore  ;  1  had  often 
now  had  to  endure 
ortnight  I  was  too 
unfortunate  patri- 
>od  it  were  night ! 
pe. 

burning  hours  of 
he  past,  and  the 

terrible  distinct- 
li  sougiit  comfort 

a  condemnation, 
y  a  hopeless,  self- 

the  awful  brink 
r  for  peace,  and 
8  and  tears,  and 
f  again  suffer  in 


"  The  jKJor  lost  girl  who  watched  my  bed,  iK,'held  liie  fierce 
t08.sing.s  of  pain,  the  agonies  of  remorse,  with  icy  afiathy.  She 
could  neither  direct  nor  assist  my  mind  in  its  straggles  to  obtain 
one  faint  glimmer  of  light  through  the  dense  gloom  caused  by 
infidelity  and  sin. 

"  Death — natural  death — the  mere  extinction  of  animal  life, 
I  did  not  dread.  Had  the  conflict  ended  with  annihilation,  I 
could  have  welcomed  it  with  joy.  But  death  unacconipanled  by 
total  extinction  was  horrible.  To  be  deprived  of  moral  life — to 
find  the  soul  for  ever  separated  from  God,  all  its  high  and  noble 
faculties  destroyed,  while  all  that  was  infamoos  and  debasing 
remained  to  form  a  hell  of  memory,  an  eternity  of  despah',  was 
a  conviction  so  dreadful,  so  appalling  to  my  mind,  that  my  rea- 
son for  a  time  bowed  before  it,  and  for  some  days  I  was  con- 
scious of  nothing  else. 

"  This  fiery  trial  yielded  at  last.  I  became  more  tractable, 
»nd  could  think  more  calmly  upon  the  awful  subject  ever  upper- 
most in  my  mind.  I  felt  a  strong  desire  to  pray,  to  acknow- 
ledge my  guilt  to  Almighty  (Jod,  and  sue  for  pardon,  and 
restoration  to  peace  and  happiness.  I  could  not  express  my 
repentance  in  words,  I  could  only  sigh  and  weep,  but  He  who 
looks  upon  the  naked  human  heart,  knew  that  my  contrition 
was  sincere,  and  accepted  the  unformed  petition. 

"  As  the  hart  panteth  for  the  water  brooks,  so  did  my  thirsty 
soul  pant  for  the  refreshing  waters  of  life.  In  feeble  tones  1 
implored  Alice  to  read  to  me  from  the  New  Testament.  My 
eyes  were  so  much  affected  by  the  fever,  that  I  could  scarcely 
distinguish  the  objects  ronnd  me. 

"The  request  was  distasteful,  and  she  evaded  it  for  many 
days — at  last,  replied  testily, 

"  '  There  is  not  snch  a  book  in  the  house — never  was — and 
yon  know  that  quite  well.' 

"  '  You  can  borrow  one  of  the  schoolmaster  in  the  village.' 

" '  I  will  do  no  such  thing.     A  pretty  story  truly,  to  go  the 


204 


T  H  K     M  0  N  (;  r  (I  V  3  . 


rouuds  of  MonctOD.  That  the  Moriiingtons  were  such  godless 
people  they  had  no  Bible  in  the  house,  and  had  to  borrow  one. 
They  say  that  Dinah  is  a  witch,  and  this  would  confirm  it.' 

"  '  Send  the  boy  that  cuts  sticks  in  the  wood.  Let  him  ask 
it  as  if  for  his  mother.  I  know  Mr.  Ludd  will  lend  it  for  a 
good  purpose  ;  and  tell  the  boy  I  will  giva  him  half  a  sovereign 
for  his  pains.' 

"  '  Nonsense.    Why  that  would  buy  the  book.' 

" '  Oh,  do  buy  it,  Alice,  my  good  angel ;  for  the  love  of  God, 
send  and  buy  it.  Yoo  will  find  my  purse  in  my  coat-pocket. 
It  will  be  the  best  money  that  was  erer  laid  out  by  me.' 

"  '  You  had  better  be  still  and  go  to  sleep,  Philip  ;  you  arc 
far  too  ill  to  bear  the  fatigue  of  reading  yet.' 

"  This  was  dreadfully  tantalizing,  but  I  was  forced  to  Hubiiiit. 
The  next  morning  she  brought  me  a  cup  of  tea.  I  looked  wist- 
fully in  her  face. 

"  '  Dear  Alice,  you  could  give  me  something  timt  would  do 
me  more  good  thau  this.' 

"  '  Some  broth,  perhaps ;  sick  people  always  fancy  everything 
that  is  not  at  hand.' 

"'That  book.' 

" '  Are  you  thinking  about  that  still  ?' 

" '  I  long  for  the  bread  of  life." 

"  '  Do  you  want  to  turn  Methodist  V 

'• '  I  wish  to  become  a  Christian.' 

"  '  Are  you  not  one  already  ?' 

'"Oh,  no,  no,  Alice  1  All  my  life  long  I  have  denied  the 
word  of  God  and  the  power  of  salvation  ;  and  now,  I  would 
give  the  whole  world,  if  I  possessed  it,  to  obtain  the  true  riches. 
Do,  dear  sister,  grant  my  earnest  request,  and  may  the  God  of 
all  mercy  bring  you  to  a  knowledge  of  the  truth.' 

" '  I  hate  cant,'  said  Alice,  discontentedly,  '  but  I  will  see 
what  I  can  do  for  you.' 

"She  took  some  money  from  my  purse  and  left  the  room. 


u 

1 

a 
n 


THE     MOVCTONS. 


205 


were  such  godless 
lad  to  borrow  one. 
Id  confirm  it.' 
'ood.     Let  him  ask 

will  lend  it  for  a 
im  half  a  sovereign 

)ok.' 

jr  the  love  of  God, 

n  my  coat-pocket. 

out  by  me.' 

»,  Fliilip  ;  you  are 

8  forced  to  Hubitiit. 
ea.     1  looked  wist- 

ing  tliut  would  do 

's  fancy  everything 


have  denied  the 
and  now,  T  would 
Etia  the  true  riches. 
1  may  the  God  of 
ith.' 
r,  '  but  I  will  see 

nd  left  the  room. 


"  Hours  passed  away.  I  listened  for  her  returning  footsteps 
until  I  fell  asleep.  It  was  night  when  I  again  unclosed  my  eyes. 
Alice  was  sitting  by  the  little  table  reading.  Oh,  blessed  sight. 
The  Bible  lay  open  before  her. 

'"I  dreampt  it,'  I  cried  joyfully.  '  I  dreampt  that  you  got  it, 
and  God  has  brought  it  to  pass.  Oh,  dear  Alice  yon  have  made 
mo  so  happy.' 

"  '  What  shall  I  read  ?' 

"I  was  puzzled;  so  much  a  stranger  was  I  to  the  sacred 
volume,  that  though  it  had  formed  a  portion  of  my  school  and 
college  studies,  the  little  interest  then  felt  in  it  oonKints,  had 
made  me  almost  a  stranger  to  them. 
"  '  Read  the  Gospel  of  St.  John.' 
'"A  chapter  you  mean.' 
'"As  much  as  you  can.     Until  yon  are  tired.' 
"  She  began  at  the  opening  chapter  of  that  sublime  gospel,  in 
which  we  have  so  much  of  the  mind  of  Jesus,  though  lew  of  his 
wondrous  parables  and  miracles  ;   but  matter  that  is  higher, 
more  mysterious,  spiritual  and  satisfying  to  the  soul.    Nor  could 
T  suffer  her  to  lay  aside  the  book  until  it  was  concluded. 

"  How  eagerly  I  drauk  in  every  word,  and  long  after  every 
eye  was  closed  in  sleep  1  continued  in  meditation  and  prayer. 
A  thousand  times  I  repeated  to  myself,  '  And  ye  shall  know  the 
truth,  and  the  truth  shall  set  you  free.'  What  a  glorious  eman- 
cipation from  the  chains  of  sin  and  death.  Oh,  how  I  longed 
for  a  knowledge  of  that  truth,  and  the  answer  came.  *  O  Lord 
thy  word  is  truth;'  and  the  problem  in  my  soul  was  satisfied,  and 
V.  ith  a  solemn  thanksgiving  I  devoted  myself  to  the  service  of 
God.  A  calm  and  holy  peace  came  down  upon  my  soul,  and 
that  night  I  enjoyed  the  first  refreshing  sleep  I  had  known  for 
many  weeks. 

"  In  the  morning  I  was  much  better,  but  still  too  weak  to 
leave  my  bed. 


^^F' 


206 


THK    MONOTONS. 


"  I  spent  most  of  the  day  in  reading  tlie  Bible.  Alice  had 
relaxed  much  of  her  attention,  and  I  only  Raw  her  during  the 
brief  periods  when  she  administered  medicine,  or  brought  me 
broth  or  gruel. 

"  I  felt  hurt  at  her  coldness  ;  but  it  was  something  more  than 
mere  coldness.  Her  manner  had  become  sullen  and  disagree- 
able. She  answered  me  abruptly  and  in  raouosyllables,  and 
appeared  ratLer  sorry  than  glad,  that  I  was  in  a  fair  way  of 
recovering, 

"  I  often  heard  her  and  Dinah  hold  confnaed  whispering  con- 
Tcrsations,  iu  the  outer  room  into  which  mine  opened,  the  cot- 
tage being  entirely  on  the  ground  floor,  and  one  evening  I 
thought  I  recognized  the  deep  tones  of  a  man's  voice.  I  tried 
to  catch  a  i)art  of  their  discourse,  but  the  sounds  were  too  low 
and  guarded  to  make  anything  oat.  A  short  time  after  I  heard 
the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  upon  the  gravel  walk  that  led  past 
the  cottage  into  the  park.  I  sat  up  in  the  bed  which  was  oppo- 
site the  window,  which  commanded  a  view  of  the  road,  and  per- 
ceived, to  my  dismay,  that  the  stranger  was  no  other  than 
Robert  Moucton,  who  was  riding  towards  the  village. 

"  A  dread  of  something — I  scarcely  knew  what — took  posses- 
sion of  my  mind,  and  remembering  my  weak,  helpless  state,  and 
iiow  completely  1  was  in  tlie  power  of  Dinah  North,  T  gave 
myself  up  to  vague  apprehensions  of  approaching  evil. 

"  Ashamed  of  my  weakness,  I  took  the  sacred  volume  from 
under  my  pillow,  and  soon  regained  my  self-possession.  I  felt 
that  I  was  iu  the  hands  of  God,  and  that  all  things  regarding 
me  would  be  ordered  for  the  riglit.  Oil,  what  a  blessing  is  this 
trust  in  the  care  of  an  oven-uling  Providence  ;  how  it  relieves 
one  from  brooding  over  the  torturing  fears  of  what  may  accrue 
ou  the  morrow,  verifying  the  divine  proverb  :  '  Sufficient  unto 
the  day  is  the  evil  thereof.' 

"  A  thick,  dark,  rainy  night  had  closed  in,  when  my  chamber 


■ .  jjllljllll^^ 


i  Bible.  Alice  had 
Raw  her  daring  the 
iiie,  or  brought  me 

9mething  more  than 

uilen  and  disagree- 

moiiosyllables,  and 

M  in  a  fair  way  of 

3ed  whispering  con- 
iue  opened,  the  cot* 
and  one  evening  I 
lan's  voice.  I  tried 
ounds  were  too  low 
t  time  after  I  heard 
wailc  that  led  past 
led  which  was  oppo- 
r  the  road,  and  per- 
nran  no  other  than 
le  village. 

what — took  posses- 
,  helpless  state,  and 
nah  North,  T  gave 
thing  evil. 

sacred  volame  ftom 
f-possession.  I  felt 
bll  things  regarding 
at  a  blessing  is  this 
ice  ;  how  it  relieves 
9f  what  may  aecrae 
b  :  '  Sufficient  unto 

,  when  my  chamber 


T  II  K      M  O  N  L'  r  ()  N  S  . 


Mt 


d.K)r  opened,  and  Alice  glided  in.  She  hold  iu  her  hand  a  small 
tray,  on  which  was  a  large  tnmbler  of  mulled  wino  and  some  dry 
tou«'t  I  had  not  tasted  food  since  noon,  and  I  felt  both  faint 
and  hungry.  A  strange,  ghastly  expression  flitted  over  my  sis- 
ter's face,  which  was  unusually  pale,  as  she  sat  down  on  the  side 

of  tlie  bed. 

"  '  You  have  been  a  long  time  away,'  said  I,  with  the  pee- 
vish fretfulness  of  an  invalid.  '  If  you  were  ill  and  incapable  of 
helping  yourself,  AUce,  I  would  not  neglect  you,  and  leave  yon 
for  hours  in  this  way.    I  might  have  died  during  your  absence.' 

'  •  No  fear  of  that,  Philip.  Yon  are  growing  cross,  which  is 
always  a  good  sign.  I  would  have  come  sooner,  but  had  so 
nuuiy  things  to  attend  to,  that  it  was  impossible.  Dinah  is  too 
old  to  work,  and  all  the  household  work  falls  on  me.     But,  how 

arc  yon  ?' 

"  '  Better,  but  very  hungry.' 

" '  I  don't  doubt  it.  It  is  time  yon  took  something.  I  have 
(jot  a  little  treat  for  you— some  fine  mulled  sherry— it  will  do 
vou  good  and  strengthen  you.' 

'"1  do'i't  care  for  it,'  said  I,  with  an  air  of  disgust.  '  I  am 
very  thirsty.    Give  me  a  cup  of  tea.' 

"  '  We  got  tea  hours  ago,  when  yon  were  asleep,  and  there  is 
not  a  drop  of  hot  water  in  the  kettle.  The  wine  is  more  nour- 
ishing.   The  doctor  recommended  it.    Do  taste  it,  and  see  how 

good  it  is !' 

"  I  tried  to  comply  with  her  request.  A  shudder  came  over 
me  as  I  put  the  tumbler  to  my  lips.  '  It's  of  no  use,'  I  said, 
putting  it  back  on  to  the  tray.     '  1  cannot  drink  it.' 

"  '  If  you  love  me,  Philip,  try.  Drink  a  little,  if  you  can.  1 
made  it  on  purpose  to  please  you.' 

"  She  bent  her  large  bright  eyes  on  me  with  an  nnxions, 
dubious  expression-a  straiiKe,  wild  look,  such  as  I  never  saw 
her  face  wear  before. 

•'  I  looked  at  her  in  return,  with  a  curious,  seatching  gaze 


1 


iiin 


T  II  y.    M  II  N  >;  r  II  n  s, 


1.     iy 

I'  «* 


I  did  not  exactly  suspect  her  of  any  evil  iuieutioij  towmus  me, 
but  her  msnuer  wus  inysttTious,  and  excited  surprise. 
"  She  clianged  color,  and  turned  uway. 
"  A  suddou  thought  darted  through  my  brain.  Robert 
Moncton  had  been  there.  He  coveted  my  death,  for  what 
reason  I  could  not  fathom.  I  only  knew  tlie  fact.  What  if 
that  draught  were  poison  1 — and  suspicion,  once  aroused,  whis- 
pered it  is  poison. 

"  I  rose  slowly  in  the  bed,  and  grouped  her  lirinly  by  the 
wrist. 

" '  Alice  I  we  will  driuk  of  that  glass  together.     You  look 
faint  and  pale.    The  contents  will  set  you  all  right.     Take  half 
and  I  will  drink  the  rest.' 
" '  I  never  drink  wine.* 
"  'You  dare  not  drink  that  wine.' 
"  '  If  I  liked  it,  what  should  hinder  me  V 
" '  You  could  not  like  it  Alice.     It  is  poison  !' 
A  faint  cry  burst  from  her  lips. 
•'  •  God  of  heaven,  who  told  you  that  V 
" '  Flesh  and  blood  did  not  reveal  it  to  me.     Alice,  Alice, 
how  could  I  imagine  such  a  thing  of  you  V 

"  '  How,  indeed  1'  murmured  the  wretched  girl,  weeping  pas- 
sionately. '  She  persuaded  me  to  bring  it  to  you.  he  mixed 
the  wine.     I — I  bad  nothing  else  to  do  with  it.' 

"  •  Yet  to  you,  as  a  willing  instrument  of  evil,  they  entrusted 
the  most  important  part  of  their  hellish  mission.' 

"  She  flung  herself  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed,  and  raising  her 
clasped  hands  and  streaming  eyes  to  Heaven  implored  God  to 
forgive  lior  for  the  crime  she  had  premeditated  against  my  lite, 
binding  herself  in  an  uwful  curse,  not  only  to  devise  means  to 
save  my  life,  but  to  remove  me  from  the  cottage. 

" '  As  to  you,  Philip,  I  dare  not  ask  you  to  forgive  me— I 
only  implore  you  not  to  cnrse  me.' 

" '  I  should  entertain  a  very  poor  opinion  of  myself,  if  1  should 


n 

ii 
i- 
». 

I 
»l 


Biitioii  towuruii  me, 
surprise. 

tiy  brain.  Robert 
y  death,  for  what 
he  fact.  What  if 
Jiice  uroiisuil,  wiiis- 

iier  lirtiily  by  the 

>gotiier.     Vou  look 
I  right.     Take  iialf 


on ." 


me.     Alice,  Alice, 

i  girl,  weeping  pas- 
te yon.  He  mixed 
it.' 

evil,  thfy  entrusted 
ion.' 

bed,  and  raibing  her 
en  implored  God  to 
tted  against  my  life, 
to  devise  means  to 
nge. 
I  to  forgive  me — I 

f  myself,  if  T  should 


T  II  K     M  II  N  l;  r  I)  N  ri  . 


•aw 


refuse  to  do  tbo  oue,  or  attempt  such  au  act  of  wiekudnuu  us  it 
involved  ia  the  other.  But,  Alice,  do  not  think  that  1  can 
excuse  the  commission  of  such  a  dreadful  crime  iid  inni'der— 
».nd  upon  whom?  A  brother  who  loved  you  tendcily— who, 
to  his  own  knowledge,  never  injured  you  in  word,  thought  or 
deed.' 

"  '  Philip,  you  are  not  my  brother,  or  the  deed  had  never  been 
attempted.' 

"  '  Not  your  brother  I     Who  am  I  then  ?' 

"  '  I  cannot — dare  not  tell  you.  At  least  not  now.  Escape 
from  this  dreadful  place,  and  some  future  time  may  reveal  it.' 

" '  You  talk  of  escape  as  a  thing  practicable  and  easy.  1  am 
so  weak  I  can  scarcely  stand,  much  less  walk  ten  paces  from  tiie 
house.     How  can  I  get  away  unknown  to  Dinah  V 

"  '  Listen  to  me — 1  will  tell  you.'  She  rose  from  Imr  knees, 
and  gliding  to  the  door  that  led  into  the  outer  room,  site  ^^eiitly 
unclosed  it,  and  leaning  forward  looked  cauiiouhily  into  (he  ouUt 
Hpnce.  Satisfied  that  it  was  vacant,  she  returned  stealthily  to 
my  bedside. 

" '  I  must  make  Dinah  believe  that  you  have  drank  tiiis 
wine.  In  less  than  two  hours  you  will,  in  her  estiinution,  be 
dead.  Not  a  creature  knows  of  your  return.  For  our  own 
Kakes,  we  have  kept  your  being  here  a  profound  secret.  Robert 
Moncton,  however,  was  duly  informed  by  Dinah  of  your  visit. 
][e  came  this  morning  to  the  house,  and  tliey  concocted  thi.i 
scheme  between  them.  She  is  now  absent  looking  for  a  con- 
venient spot  for  a  grave  for  your  body  when  dead.  She  talked 
of  the  dark  shrubbery,  i.^'hat  spot  is  seldom  visited  by  any  one, 
l)ecause  the  neighbors  fancy  that  it  is  haunted.  You  know  how 
afraid  we  were  of  going  near  those  dark,  shadowy  yews  when 
we  were  children.  Margaret  used  to  call  it  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death.' 

" '  And  it  was  there,'  I  said,  with  a  shudder,  '  that  you  meant 
to  bury  me  V 


0 


T  H  K      M  O  V  C  T  It  X  «  . 


<-lm>.. 


...  \m, 


"  '  Tlierp — I  hnv«  jirominflil  to  ilfftjr  your  IhxJy  to  the  spot  in 
a  Hack,  and  lielp  Diinilt  ninke  the  Rravo.  But  hiat— I  thought 
1  heard  n  step.     We  have  no  time  to  waste  in  idle  words.' 

"'She  cannot  l)ury  me,  you  know,  witiiout  my  consunt,  before 
I  am  dead,'  I  flaid,  with  a  faint  Kuuie.  '  \t»r  can  1  iniHKiii" 
how  you  will  he  able  to  deceive  her.  She  will  certiiinly  discover 
the  difference  between  an  empty  Hack  and  a  full  one.' 

"  '  I  have  hit  on  a  plun,  which,  if  well  nmnu^fcd,  will  lull  her 
8U8picions  to  sleep.  Yon  know  the  Itroken  atatue  of  Apollo, 
that  lies  at  the  entrance  of  the  Lodge  ?  It  is  about  your  size. 
It  once  belonged  to  the  Hall  {gardens,  and  Sir  Alexander  kuvo 
It  to  me  for  a  plaything  years  ago.  1  did  not  care  far  such  a 
huge  doll,  and  it  has  lain  there  ever  since.  1  will  convey  this  to 
your  chamber,  and  dress  it  in  your  night-clotlics.  The  sack 
will  cover  the  mutilated  limbs,  and  by  the  dim,  uncertain  light 
of  the  dark  lantern,  she  will  never  discover  the  cheat.' 

"  '  But  if  she  should  insist  on  inspecting  the  body  T 

"  '  I  will  prevent  It.  In  the  meanwhile  you  must  be  prepared 
to  leave  the  house  when  I  come  to  letch  the  body.' 

"  I  felt  very  sick,  and  bnried  my  face  in  the  piLUws. 

"  '  1  do  not  care  to  go  ;  let  nie  stay  here  and  die.' 

"  '  You  nuist  live  for  my  sake,'  cried  the  unhappy  girl,  clasp- 
ing my  cold  hand  to  hei  rt,  and  covering  it  with  kisses.  '  If 
yon  fail  me  now,  we  ar  j  both  lost.  Dinah  would  never  forgive 
me  for  betraying  her  uml  Moncton.  Do  you  doubt  that  what  I 
have  told  yon  is  true  ?' 

"  '  Not  in  the  leiwt,  my  poor  Alice  ;  but  I  am  so  weak  and 
ill_go  forsaken  and  nidiappy,  that  I  no  longer  care  for  the  life 
you  offer.' 

"  '  It  was  the  gift  of  God.  You  must  not  throw  it  away. 
He  may  have  work  on  the  earth  that  he  requires  you  to  do.' 

"  These  words  saved  me.  I  no  longer  hesitated  to  take  the 
chance  she  offered  me,  though  I  entertained  small  hopes  of  its 
success.     Yet  if  the  hand  of  Providcfce  was  stretched  out  to 


irimiiMriBiiif 


T  II  K     M  (»  N  C  T  t»  N  «  , 


sii 


bmly  to  the  spot  in 
But  hiat'I  thought 
in  idle  words.' 
t  my  I'oniKMit,  before 
Nor  can  I  iinHK>»t< 
ill  certainly  Miscovcr 
full  one,' 

lnnll^re«^,  will  lull  lier 
II  statue  of  Apollo, 
t  ifl  about  your  si7X>. 
Sir  Alexander  xuvo 
not  care  for  such  ii 
I  will  convey  this  to 
;-clotlt«s.  The  Hack 
diui,  unccrtuiu  light 
the  cheat.' 
he  body  T 

on  inuMt  i>e  prepared 
I  body.' 
he  pillews. 
and  dip.' 

unluippy  girl,  clasp- 
^  it  with  kisses.  '  If 
would  never  forgive 
u  doubt  that  what  I 

t  I  am  so  weak  and 
luger  care  for  the  life 

not  throw  it  uwny. 
quires  you  to  do.' 
hesitated  to  take  the 
;d  small  hopes  of  its 
VU8  stretched  out  to 


rescue  mo  from  destruction,  it  was  oidy  right  for  mo  to  yield  to 
Its  guidance  with  obedient  gratitude  ami  praise. 

"  Alice  was  about  to  leave  the  room— she  once  more  returned 
to  my  side. 

"  '  Say  that  you  forgive  me,  Philip.' 

"  I  folded  her  in  my  thin,  wasted  arms,  and  imprinted  a  kisg 
oil  liur  rigiil  brow. 

"  '  From  my  very  heart  !' 

"  '  God  ble.sa  you,  Philip  I  1  will  love  and  cherish  your 
memory  to  my  dying  hour.' 

"  The  house  door  opened  suddenly  ;  she  tore  herself  from  my 
embrace.  '  Dinah  is  coming— Ho  quite  still— moan  often,  as  if 
in  pain,  and  leave  mo  to  manage  the  rest.' 

"  She  left  the  chamber,  and  the  door  purposely  ajar,  that  I 
might  be  guided  in  my  conduct  by  what  passed  between  them. 

"  '  Did  he  drink  it  ?'  whispered  the  dreadful  woman. 

"  '  He  did.' 

"  '  And  how  docs  it  agree  with  his  stomach-?'  she  laughed — 

her  low,  horrid  laugh. 

"  '  As  might  be  expected— -he  feels  rather  qualmish.' 

"  '  Ha,  ha  !'  cried  the  old  fiend,  rubbing  her  withered  long 
hands  together,  'you  camo  Delilah  over  him.  Our  pretty  Sam- 
sou  is  caught  at  last.  Let  mc  see— how  long  will  it  be  before 
the  poison  takes  effect— about  t  vo hours— when  did  he  take  it?' 

" '  About  an  hour  ago.  He  is  almost  insensible.  Don't  you 
hear  him  groan.     The  struggle  will  soou  be  over.' 

"  '  And  then  my  bonny  bird  will  have  no  rival  to  wealth  and 
power.  What  your  mother,  by  her  obstinate  folly,  lost,  your 
wit  rtiid  prudence,  my  beauty,  will  regain.' 

"  This  speech  of  Dinah's  was  to  me  perfectly  inexplicable.  I 
heard  Alice  sigh  deeply,  but  she  lUd  not  reply. 

"  The  old  woman  left  the  cottage  but  quickly  returned. 

" '  I  want  the  spade.' 


M 


? 


212 


TU  K    M  0  N  CT  O  N  d. 


"  '  You  will  find  it  in  the  out-house  ;  the  mattock  is  there, 
too  ;  you  will  need  it  to  breait  the  hard  ground.' 

"  '  No,  no  ;  my  arm  is  strong  yet — stronger  than  you  think, 
for  a  woman  of  my  years.  The  heavy  rain  his  moistened  the 
earth.  The  spade  will  do  the  job  ;  we  need  not  make  a  deep 
grave.     No  one  will  ever  look  for  him  there.' 

"'The  place  was  always  haunted,  it  will  be  doubly  so 
now.' 

"  '  Pshaw  !  who  believes  in  ghosts.  The  dead  are  dead— lost 
— gone  for  ever  ;  grass  springs  from  them,  and  their  juices  go 
to  fatten  worms  and  nourish  the  weeds  of  the  earth,  liight  me 
tiie  lantern  and  I  will  defy  all  the  ghosts  and  demons  in  the 
world  ;  and-  hark  you,  Alice,  the  moment  he  is  dead  vM  the 
body  in  a  sack,  and  call  me  to  help  to  drag  it  to  the  grave.  I 
shall  have  it  ready  in  no  time.' 

"  '  Monster  1'  I  muttered  to  myself,  '  the  pit  you  are  prepar- 
ing for  me,  ere  long,  may  open  beneath  your  own  feet.' 

"  1  heard  the  old  woman  close  the  front  door  after  her,  and 
presently  Alice  reentered  my  chamber. 

"  '  Well,  thank  God  she  is  gone  on  her  unholy  task.  Now, 
Phiiii) !  now — lose  no  time — rise,  dress  yourself,  and  be  off  as 
fast  us  yon  can  !' 

"  1  endeavored  to  obey,  but,  exhausted  by  long  sickness,  I  fell 
back  fainting  upon  the  bed. 

"  '  Stay,'  said  Alice,  '  you  are  weak  for  the  want  of  nourish- 
ment.    1  will  get  you  fooci  and  drink.' 

"  She  brought  me  a  glass  of  port  wine,  and  some  sandwiches. 
I  dranK  the  wine  eagerly,  but  could  not  touch  the  food.  The 
wine  gave  me  a  fictitious  strength  After  making  several 
efforts  I  vvas  able  to  rise  and  dress  —  the  excitement  of  the 
moment  and  the  hope  of  escape  acting  as  powerful  stimulants.  1 
secured  all  that  remained  of  my  small  fund  of  money,  tied  up  a 
change  of  linen  in  a  pocket-handkerchief,  kissed  the  pale  girl 


lie  mattock  is  there, 

)und.' 

iger  than  you  think, 

a  his  moistened  the 

ed  not  make  a  deep 

, » 

will    be    doubly  so 

dead  are  dead— lost 
and  their  juices  go 
he  earth.  Eight  me 
and  demons  in  the 
he  is  dead  v.^t  the 
it  to  the  grave.     I 

5  pit  you  are  prepar- 

r  own  feet.' 

t  door  after  her,  and 

unholy  task.     Now, 
lurseif,  and  be  off  as 

y  long  sickness,  I  fell 

the  want  of  nourish- 

ind  some  sandwiches, 
ouch  the  food.  The 
fter  making  several 
e  excitement  of  tiie 
)werful  stimulants.  1 
1  of  money,  tied  up  a 
kissed  the  pale  girl 


THE     MONCTONS, 


213 


wl'.o  stood  cold  and  tearless  at  ray  side,  and  committing  myself 

to  the  care  of  God,  stole  out  into  the  dark  night. 

"  1  breathed  again  the  fresh  air,  and  my  former  vigor  of  mind 

returned.  I  felt  like  one  just  freed  from  prison,  after  having 
,  liad  sentence  of  death  pronounced  against  him.  1  was  once 
i  more  free— miraculously  escaped  from  death  and  danger,  and 
1  silently  and  fervently  I  offered  up  a  grateful  prayer  to  the  Hear 

venly  Father,  to  whom  I  was  indebted  for  such  a  signal  act  of 

mercy. 

"  You  will  think  it  strange,  Geoffrey— the  whim  of  a  mad- 
man—but 1  felt  an  unsatiable  curiosity  to  witness  the  interment 
of  my  supposed  body,  to  see  how  Alice  would  carry  out  the  last 
act  of  the  tragic  drama. 

"  The  wish  was  no  sooner  formed,  than  I  prepared  to  carry  it 
into  execution. 

"  The  yew  shrubbery  lay  at  the  north  end  of  the  cottage,  and 
was  divided  from  the  road,  by  a  clipped  holly  hedge.  A  large 
yew  tree  grew  out  of  the  centre  of  this  hedge,  which  had  been 
clipped  to  represent  a  watch  tower.  Open  spaces  having  been 
left  for  loop-holes.  Through  these  square  green  apertures,  I 
had  often,  when  a  boy,  made  war  upon  the  blackbirds  and  spar- 
rows, unseen  by  my  tiny  game. 

"  By  creeping  close  to  the  hedge,  and  looking  through  one  of 
these  loop-holes,  I  could  observe  all  that  was  passing  within  the 
shrubbery,  without  being  observed  by  Dinah  or  Alice.  Cau- 
tiously stealing  along,  for  the  night  was  intensely  dark,  and 
guiding  my  steps  by  the  thick  hedge,  which  resembled  a  massy 
green  wall,  I  reached  the  p,ngle  where  it  turned  off  into  the 
park.  In  this  corner  stood  the  green  tower  I  was  seeking,  and 
climbing  softly  the  gate  which  led  into  the  spacious  domain  of 
the  Monctons,  1  stepped  upon  a  stone  block  used  by  the  domes- 
tics for  mounting  horses,  and  thus  raised  several  feet  from  the 
ground,  1  could  distinctly  observe,  through  the  opening  in  the 
tree,  all  that  was  passing  below. 


w 


m 


214 


THE     MONCTOXS, 


T 


"  A  fiUut  light  directly  beneath  me,  gleniiiod  up  i"  the  deoBt 
drizzly  darkness,  and  shone  on  the  hideous  features  of  that  iil>- 
horred  old  wr,man,  who  was  leaning  over  >x  shallow  grave  she 
had  just  scoped  out  of  the  wet  denk  soil.  Her  arms  rested  on 
the  top  of  the  spade,  and  she  scowled  down  iuto  the  pit  that 
yawned  at  her  feet,  with  a  smile  of  derision  t  a  her  thin  sarcas- 
tic lips. 

"  '  It's  deep  enough  to  hide  him  from  the  light  of  day.  There's 
nei»'r  a  shroud  nor  coffin  to  take  up  the  room,  and  he  is  worn 
to  a  skeleton  by  his  long  sickness.  Yes— there  let  him  rest  till 
the  judgment  day— the  worm  for  his  mate  and  the  cold  clay  for 
his  pillow  ;  I  wish  the  same  bed  held  all  his  accursed  race. 

"  '  And  his  pak  f'^ced,  dainty  mother— where  is  she  ?  Does 
her  spirit  hover  near,  to  welcome  her  darling  to  the  laud  of 

dreams  ?' 

"  A  light  step  sounded  on  the  narrow  path  that  led  from  tiio 
shrubbery  to  the  cottage,  nccompauled  by  a  dull   lumbering 

sound. 

"  Dinah,  raised  the  lantern  from  the  s'de  of  the  grave,  and 
held  it  up  into  the  dark  night. 
" '  Alice  ?' 

"  '  Dinah  I'  j 

"  •  Is  he  dead  ?'  • 

"  '  Yes.    Here,  lend  a  hand.    The  body  is  dreadfully  heavy. 
I  am  almost  killed  with  dragging  it  hither.' 
"  '  You  did  not  bring  it  alone  1' 

"  '  Who  could  I  ask  to  help  me  ?  and  I  was  so  afraid  of  dis- 
covery, I  dared  not  leave  it  to  come  for  you.' 

"  The  old  woman  put  down  the  light,  and  went  to  help  her 
granddaii.;liter. 

"  '  Let  us  voW  the  body  into  the  grave,  mother.' 

"  '  Not  yet — I  must  look  at  him.' 

"  He  makes  n  dreadful  cornse.' 

"  '  Deulh  is  no  Qattnrpr  '•hi  d     Hold  up  the  light.' 


THE     M0NCT0N8. 


215 


ud  up  ill  tliu  dense 
•atiires  of  that  al)- 
shallow  grave  she 
[er  anus  rested  on 
into  the  pit  that 
1  her  thin  sarcas- 

htofday.  There's 
om,  and  he  is  worn 
lere  let  him  rest  till 
ad  the  cold  clay  for 
iccarsed  race, 
lere  is  she  ?  Does 
ing  to  the  land  of 

I  that  led  from  tiio 
a  dull   lumbering 

e  of  the  grave,  and 


is  dreadfully  heavy. 

was  so  afraid  of  dis- 

1.' 

md  went  to  help  het 

Dther.' 
the  n«ht.> 


"  '  No,  no  ! — You  must  not — you  slsall  not  triumph  over  him 
now.  Let  the  dead  rest,  I  darn  not  look  upon  that  blue  cold 
£acc,  those  staring  eyes  again.' 

"  '  Who  wants  you,  foolish  child  ?  I  wish  to  satisfy  myself 
that  ray  enemy  is  dear!,' 

"  A  scuffle  ensued,  in  which  the  light  wan  extinguished,  and 
the  supposed  body  rolled  heavily  over  into  the  grave. 

" '  Oh,  mother,  mother  1  the  li'^ht  is  out,  and  we're  alone  with 
the  corpse  in  ^his  dreadful  darkudss.' 

" '  Nonsfcji.se — how  timid  you  are.  Go  back  to  the  house  and 
re-light  the  candle.' 

'* '  I  dare  not  go  alone.' 

'"Then  let  me  go?' 

"  '  And  leave  me  with  him  ?  Oh,  not  for  worlds.  Mother 
mother  I  I  hear  him  moving  in  the  grave.  He  is  going  to  rise 
and  drag  me  down  into  it.  Look — look  I  I  see  his  eyes  glaring 
in  the  dark  hole.    There,  mother — there  I' 

" '  Curse  you  for  a  weak  fool  I  You  make  even  my  flesh 
creep.' 

"  '  Cover  it  up— cover  it  up  1'  cried  Alice,  pushing  with  her 
hands  and  feet  some  of  the  loose  earth  into  the  grave.  '  That 
ghastly  face  will  rise  and  condemn  ns  at  the  Last  Day.  It  will 
haunt  me  as  long  as  I  live.  Oh,  'tis  terrible,  terrible,  to  feel 
the  stain  of  blood  on  your  soul,  and  to  know  that  all  the  waters 
of  the  great  ocean  could  never  wash  it  out.' 

" '  I  will  go  home  with  you,  Alice,  and  return  and  close  the 
grave  myself,'  said  Dinah,  in  a  determined  tone.  '  If  you  stay 
here  much  longer,  you  will  make  me  as  great  a  coward  as 
yourself.' 

'^  I  heard  the  sound  of  their  retreating  steps,  and  leaving  my 
place  of  concealment,  slowly  pursued  my  way  to  the  next  village. 
Entering  a  small  tavern,  I  asked  for  supper  and  a  bed.  The 
innkeeper  and  his  wife  were  both  known  to  me,  bat  I  was  so 


T 


•it- 


I. 


216 


THR      MONCTOV8, 


niufli  al tired  Wy  sickiieRs  thiit  they  (lid  not  recogi.ize  me.  After 
taking  a  eiip  o(  tea,  I  retired  to  rest,  uiid  was  so  overc-orue  by 
mental  and  bodily  fatigue,  that  I  slept  soundly  until  noon  the 
next  day,  when  I  breakfasted,  and  took  a  seat  in  the  mail  coach 
for  Loudon. 

"  During  my  journey  I  calmly  pondered  over  my  situation, 
and  formed  a  plan  for  the  future,  which  I  lost  no  tim<5  in  putting 
into  practice. 

"  From  what  had  fallen  from  the  lips  of  Alice,  I  was  con- 
Tinced  that  some  mystery  was  connected  with  my  birth,  and 
the  only  means  which  I  could  devise  to  fathom  it,  was  to  gniu 
more  insight  into  the  character  and  private  history  of  Robert 
Moncton. 

"  At  times  the  thought  would  present  itself  to  my  mind  that 
this  man  might  be  my  father.  My  mother  was  a  strange  crea- 
ture— a  woman  whose  moral  principles  could  not  have  ranked 
very  high.  I  scarcely  knew,  from  my  own  experience,  if  she 
pcssessed  any— at  all  events  I  determined  to  get  a  place 
iu  Ilia  office,  if  possible,  and  wait  patiently  until  something 
should  turn  up  which  might  satisfy  my  doubts,  and  expose  the 
tissue  of  villainy  that  an  uucoward  destiny  had  woven  around 
me.  While  at  college,  I  had  studied  for  the  bar,  and  had 
gained  an  extensive  knowledge  in  the  jurisprudence  of  my 
country— in  which  I  took  great  delight,  and  which  I  had 
intended  to  follow  as  a  profession  ;  when,  unfortunately,  the 
death  of  Mr.  Mornington  rendered  me  an  independent  man. 
At  school  I  had  learned  to  write  all  sorts  of  hands,  and  could 
engross  with  great  beauty  and  accuracy. 

"  As  a  man,  I  was  personally  unknown  to  Robert  Monctoti, 
whom  I  never  beheld  but  once,  and  for  a  few  minutes  only, 
when  a  boy,  and  time  and  sickness  had  so  altered  me,  that  it 
was  not  very  likely  that  he  would  recognize  me  again. 

"  Two  years  previous  to  the  time  of  which  I  am  now  speak- 


m 


THR     MO  NO TONS. 


217 


logiiize  ine.  After 
as  so  overcame  by 
idly  until  noon  the 
A  in  the  mail  coach 

over  my  situation, 
,  no  tim<5  in  putting 

Alice,  I  was  con- 
rith  my  birth,  and 
horn  it,  was  to  gain 
8  history  of  Robert 

ilf  to  my  mind  that 
was  ft  strange  crea- 
d  not  have  ranked 
I  experience,  if  she 
d  to  get  a  place 
cly  until  something 
bts,  and  expose  the 
had  woven  around 

the  bar,  and  had 
irisprndence  of  ray 

and  which  I  had 
,  unfortunately,  the 
I  independent  man. 
of  hands,  and  could 

o  Robert  Moncloti, 
t  few  minutes  only, 
>  altered  me,  that  it 
me  again, 
oh  I  am  now  speak- 


ing, I  had  saved  the  eldest  so'.i  of  Mr.  Moncton's  head  clerk  from 
drowning,  at  the  risk  of  my  own  lite.  Mr.  IJnsselt  was  over- 
whelming in  his  expressions  of  gratitude,  and  us  to  his  poor 
little  wife,  she  never  mentioned  the  circumstance  with  dry  eyes. 

"  The  boy,  who  was  about  ten  years  of  age,  was  a  very  noble, 
handsome  little  fellow,  and  I  often  walked  to  their  humble 
lodgings  to  see  him  and  his  good  parents,  who  always  received 
me  with  the  most  lively  demonstrations  of  joy. 

"  To  these  good  people  I  determined  to  apply  for  advice  and 
assistance.  Fortunately  my  application  was  made  in  a  lucky 
moment.  Mr.  Bassett  was  {^bout  to  leave  your  uncle's  office, 
and  he  strongly  recommended  me  to  his  old  master,  as  a  person 
well  known  to  him ;  of  excellent  character,  and  who  was  every 
way  competent  to  fill  his  place. 

"  I  was  accepted.     You  know  the  rest. 

"  Our  friendship,  dear  Geoffrey,  rendered  my  situation  far 
from  irksome,  while  it  enable  nie  to  earn  a  respectable  living. 
At  present,  I  have  learned  little,  that  can  throw  any  addi- 
tional light  upon  my  sad  history.  Alice  Mornington  still  lives, 
and  is  about  to  become  a  mother.  Theophilus,  the  dastardly 
autlior  of  her  wrongs,  is  playing  the  lover  to  the  bea'^tiful 
•_utherine  Lee,  who  is  a  ward  of  his  father's. 

"  From  the  conversation  that  passed  between  Dinah  North 
and  Mr.  Moncton  in  your  chamber,  I  suspect  that  my  poor  Alice 
IS  less  guilty  than  she  appears.  Dinah  has  some  deeper  motive 
than  merely  obliging  Robert  Moncton,  in  wishing  to  make  yon 
a  bastard.  I  feel  confident  that  this  story  has  been  recently  got 
up,  and  is  an  infamous  falsehood.  If  true,  you  would  have 
heard  of  it  before,  and  I  advise  you  to  leave  no  stone  unturned 
to  frustrate  their  wicked  conspiracy." 

"  But  what  can  I  do  ?  I  have  neither  money  nor  friends  ;  and 
my  uncle  will  take  precious  good  care  that  no  one  in  this  city 
shall  give  me  employment."  * 

10 


1   ■■ 


218 


THB     MONCTONS, 


I. 


I 


"Go  to  Sir  Alexander.  He  expressed  an  interest  iu  yoor 
Bituation.  Tell  him  the  story  of  your  wrong i,  and,  depend  upon 
it,  he  will  not  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  your  complaint.  I  know  that 
be  hates  both  father  and  son,  and  will  befriend  you  to  oppose 
and  thwart  them." 

My  heart  instantly  caught  at  this  proposal. 
"  I  will  go  1"  I  cried.     "  But  I  want  the  mean^" 
"  I  cai  supply  yon  with  the  necessary  funds,"  said  George  Har- 
rison, for  I  must  still  call  him  by  his  old  name.     "  And  my  offer 
is  not  wholly  disinterested.    Perhaps,  Geoff,  you  may  be  the 
means  of  reconciling  your  friend  to  his  old  benefactor.    But  this 
must  be  done  cautiously.     Dinah  North  must  not  know  that  I 
am  alive.    Her  ignorance  of  this  fact,  places  this  wicked  woman 
•  in  our  power,  and  may  hereafter  force  her  to  reveal  what  we 
want  to  know." 

I  promised  implicit  obedience  to  these  injunctions,  and 
thanked  him  warmly  for  his  confidence  and  advice.  His  story 
had  made  a  deep  impression  on  my  mind.  I  longed  to  serve 
him.  Indeed,  I  loved  him  with  the  most  sincere  affection  ; 
regarding  him  in  the  light  of  a  beloved  brother. 

In  a  fortnight,  I  was  able  to  walk  abroad,  and  was  quite 
impatient  to  undertake  my  Yorkshire  journey. 

Harrison  was  engaged  as  a  writer  in  the  office  of  a  respect- 
able solicitor  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  and  we  promised  to 
correspond  regularly  with  each  other  during  my  absence. 

He  generously  divided  with  me  the  little  money  he  possessed, 
and  bidding  God  bless  and  prosper  my  journey,  he  pressed  me 
to  his  warm,  noble  heart  and  bade  me  farewell. 

I  mounted  the  York  stage,  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life, 
bade  adieu  to  London  and  its  environs. 


mutm 


WM 


tmm 


n  interest  iu  your 

and,  depend  upon 

lint.     I  know  that 

end  you  to  oppose 


eanp." 

'  said  George  Har- 
!.  "  And  my  offer 
f,  you  may  be  the 
nefactor.  But  this 
;t  not  know  that  I 
this  wicked  woman 
to  reveal  what  we 

i    injunctions,   and 

advice.  His  story 
I  longed  to  serve 
sincere  affection  ; 

ler. 

)ad,  and  was  quite 

7- 

ofiSce  of  a  respect- 
d  we  promised  to 
my  absence, 
noney  he  possessed, 
rney,  he  pressed  me 
ell. 
irst  time  in  my  life, 


CHAPTER    XXI. 


MY   VISIT  TO   IIONCTON   PARK. 

It  was  a  fine,  warm,  balmy  evening  in  May— greca  delicious 
May.  With  what  delight  I  gazed  abroad  upon  the  face  of 
Nature.  Every  scene  was  new  to  me,  and  awakened  feelings 
of  curiosity  and  pleasure. 

Just  out  of  a  sick-bed,  and  after  having  been  confined  for 
weeks  in  a  dusky,  badly  ventilated  and  meanly  furnished  garret, 
my  heart  actually  bounded  with  rapture,  and,  I  drank  in  h  "th 
and  hope  from  the  fresh  breeze  that  swept  the  hair  from  my 
pale  brow  and  hollow  cheeks. 

Ah,  glorious  Nature  I  beautiful,  purest  of  all  that  is  pure  and 
holy.  Thou  visible  perfection  of  the  invisible  God.  I  was 
young  then,  and  am  now  old,  but  never  did  I  find  a  genuine  love 
of  thee,  dwelling  in  the  heart  of  a  deceitful,  wicked  man.  To 
love  thee,  we  must  adore  the  God  who  made  thee  ;  and  how- 
ever sin  may  defile  what  originally  He  pronounced  good,  when 
we  return  with  child-like  simplicity  to  thy  breast,  we  find  the 
happiness  and  peace  which  a  loving  parent  can  alone  bestow. 

Nothing  ramarkable  occurred  during  my  journey.  The 
coach,  in  due  time,  deposited  me  at  the  gates  of  the  Lodje,  iu 
wliich  my  poor  friend  Harrison  had  first  seen  the  light. 

An  involuntary  shudder  ran  through  me,  when  I  recognized 
old  Diiah  North,  standing  within  the  porch  of  the  cottage. 

She  instantly  knew  me,  and  drew  back  with  a  malignant 
scowl. 


E 


220 


THE    MONCTOKS^ 


Directing  the  coachman  to  leave  inj  portraantean  at  the 
Tiiiuge  inn,  nutil  called  for,  I  turned  up  the  broud  avenue  of 
oaks  that  led  to  the  Hall. 

The  evening  was  calm  and  lovely.  The  nightingale  was 
pouring  his  first  love-song  to  the  silent  dewy  groves.  The  per- 
fume of  the  primrose  and  violet  made  every  swelling  knoll  redo- 
lent of  sweeps.  I  paused  often,  during  my  walk,  to  admire  the 
beauty  of  a  scene  so  new  to  me. 

Those  noble  hills  and  vales  ;  that  bright-sweeping  river ; 
those  bowerlng  woods,  just  bursting  into  verdure,  and  that 
princely  mansion,  ri.sing  proudly  into  the  clear  blue  air — all 
would  be  mine,  could  I  but  viudiuate  my  mother's  honor,  and 
prove  to  the  world  that  I  was  the  offspring  of  lawful  wedlock. 

I  felt  no  doubt  myself  upon  the  subject.  Truth  may  be 
obscured  for  a  while,  but  cannot  long  remain  hid.  The  inuute 
consciousness  of  my  mother's  raoroJ  rectitude,  never  for  a 
moment  left  my  mind.  A  proud  conviction  of  her  innocence, 
which,  I  was  certain,  time  would  make  (;lear. 

FaH  of  these  reflections,  I  approached  the  Hall.  It  wus  an 
old-fashioned  building,  which  had  been  created  during  the  wars 
of  York  and  Lancaster,  now  venerable  with  the  elemental  war 
of  ages,  and  might,  in  its  day,  have  stood  the  shock  of  biittle 
and  siege.  It  was  a  fine  old  place,  and  associated  as  it  was 
with  the  history  of  the  past,  sent  a  thrill  of  superstitious  awe 
through  my  heart. 

For  upwards  of  three  hundred  years  it  had  been  the  birth- 
place of  my  family.  Here  they  had  lived  and  flourished  as 
lords  of  the  soil.  Here,  too,  most  of  them  had  died,  and  been 
gathered  into  one  common  burial-place,  in  the  vault  of  the  pic- 
turesque gothic  church,  which  stood  embosomed  in  trees  not  far 
from  the  old  feudal  mansion. 

While  I,  the  rightft'l  heir  of  the  demesne,  with  a  soul  as 
large, — with  heart  and  hand  equal  to  do  and  dare,  all  that  they 


THE     MONCTONS. 


221 


portmanteau  at  the 
ie  broud  avenue  of 

he  nightingale  was 
y  groves.  The  per- 
swelling  knoll  redo- 
walk,  to  admire  the 

gfht-sweeping  river ; 

verdure,  and  that 
clear  blue  air — all 
mother's  honor,  and 
of  lawful  wedlock. 
!Ct.  Truth  may  be 
lin  hid.  The  innate 
ti  tilde,  never  for  a 
)n  of  her  innocence, 
r. 

lie  Hall.  It  was  an 
tted  during  the  wars 
h  the  elemental  war 

the  shock  of  biittle 
associated  aa  it  was 
of  superstitious  awe 

had  been  the  birth- 
id  and  flourished  as 
Q  had  died,  and  been 
the  vault  of  the  pic- 
smed  in  trees  not  far 

Bsne,  with  a  soul  as 
id  dare,  all  that  they 


in  their  day  and  generation  had  accomplished — approached  the 
old  home,  poor  and  friendless,  with  a  stigma  upon  the  good 
name  which  legally  I  might  never  be  able  to  efface. 

But,  courage,  Geoffrey  Moncton  !  He  who  first  added  the 
appendage  of  Sir  to  that  name,  rode  among  the  victors  at  the 
battle  of  Cressy,  and  the  war-shout  of  one  of  bis  descendants 
rang  out  defiantly  on  the  blood7  field  of  Aginconrt.  Why  need 
you  despair  I  England  want':  soldiers  yet,  and  if  you  fail  in 
establishing  your  claims  to  that  name  and  its  proud  memories, 
win  one,  as  others  have  done  before  you,  at  the  cannon's 
mouth. 

I  sent  up  my  card,  which  gained  me  instant  admittance.  I 
was  shown  into  the  library,  which  Harrison  had  so  often  des- 
cribed. A  noble  old  room  pannelled  to  the  ceiling,  with  carved 
oak  now  almost  black  with  age. 

Here  I  found  the  Baronet  engaged  with  his  daughter  in  & 
game  at  chess. 

He  rose  to  meet  me  with  evident  marks  of  pleasure,  and 
introduced  me  to  Miss  Moncton,  as  a  young  cousin,  in  whom  he 
felt  much  interested,  and  one  with  whom  he  hoped  to  see  her 
better  acquainted. 

With  a  soft  blush,  and  a  smile  of  inexpressible  sweetness, 
the  little  fairy,  for  she  was  almost  as  diminutive  in  stature, 
bade  me  welcome. 

Her  face,  though  very  pleasing,  was  neither  striking  nor 
beautiful.  It  was,  however,  exquisitely  feminine,  and  beaming 
with  intelligence,  dignity  and  truth.  Her  large,  dark,  soul- 
lighted  eyes  were  singularly  beautiful.  Her  complexion,  too 
fair  and  pale  for  health  ;  the  rich  ruby-colored  full  lips  and 
dazzling  teeth,  forming  a  painful  contrast  with  the  ^"T".  nrhite 
cheeks,  shaded  by  a  dark  cloud  of  aven  tresses,  that,  parting  on 
either  side  oi"  her  lofty  brow,  flowed  in  rich  curls  down  her  snowy 
neck,  and  over  her  marble  shoulders  to  her  waist. 


,i«j»' 


222 


THB     MdNOTONS, 


fr 


Her  Qgnre  iii  miniiiture,  comprised  all  that  was  gnKtful  nnd 
lovely  iu  wouiau  ;  and  lier  frank,  unsophisticated  maniiei-d  ren- 
dered her,  in  spite  of  a  faulty  nose  and  mouth,  very  attnictire. 

After  exchunging  a  few  sentences.  Miss  Moncton  withdrew, 
ttiu.  I  lost  no  lime  in  explaining  to  her  father  the  cause  of  my 
visit— the  nmuner  in  which  I  had  been  treated  by  my  uncle,  my 
recent  illness,   and    the    utter    friendlessaesg  of   my  present 

position. 

"  You  told  me,  sir,  to  couia  to  you  at  any  crisis  of  difficulty, 
for  advice  and  assistance.  I  have  done  so,  and  shall  feel  most 
grateful  for  your  counsels  in  the  present  emergency.  I  nm  will- 
ing and  able  to  work  for  my  bread;  I  only  want  on  opening  to 
be  made  in  order  to  get  my  own  living." 

'•  Your  profession,  Geoffrey  ;  why  uot  stick  to  that  ?" 

"  Most  gladly  would  I  do  so,  had  not  Robert  Moncton  put 
the  finishing  stroke  to  his  dastardly  tyranny,  by  tearing  my 
indentures,  and  by  this  malicious  act  destroyed  the  labor  of 
seven  years," 

"  Curse  him  I  the  scoundrel  I  the  mean,  cowardly  sconndiel  1" 
cried  Sir  Alexander,  striking  the  table  with  such  violence  with 
his  clenched  hand,  that  kings,  queens,  knights,  bishops  and  coni- 
moners  made  a  general  movement  to  the  other  side  of  the  chess- 
board. "  Never  mind,  Geoffrey,  my  boy,  give  me  your  hand  - 
I  will  be  your  friend— will  restore  you  to  your  rights,  if  it  costs 
me  the  last  shilling  in  my  purse— ay,  or  the  last  drop  in  my 
veins.  Let  the  future,  for  a  short  time,  take  care  of  itself. 
Make  this  your  home  ;  look  upon  me  as  your  father,  and  we 
shall  yet  live  to  see  this  villain  reap  the  reward  of  his  evil  deeds." 
"  Generous,  noble  man  !"  I  cried,  while  tears  of  joy  and  gra- 
titude rolled  down  my  cheeks,  "how  can  I  ever  hope  to 
repay  you  for  such  disinterested  goodness  ?" 

"  By  never  alluding  to  the  subject,  Geoffrey.     Give  me  back 
the  love  your  father  once  felt  for  me,  and  I  shall  be  more  than 


at  was  gnici-fiil  urul 
icated  maiiiifi'd  reii- 
;h,  very  attructire. 
Monctou  withdrew, 
lor  the  cause  of  my 
led  by  my  uucle,  my 
ess  of   my  present 

y  crisis  of  difficulty, 

and  shall  feci  most 

jrgency.     I  om  will- 

■  want  on  opening  to 

sk  to  that  ?" 
EVobcrt  Monctou  put 
inny,  by  tearing  my 
troyed  the  labor  of 

;owardly  scoundrel  I" 
h  such  violence  with 
Its,  bishops  and  com- 
;her  side  of  the  chess- 
give  me  your  Imiul — 
■our  rights,  if  it  costs 
the  last  drop  in  my 
,  take  care  of  itself. 
your  father,  and  we 
ard  of  bis  evil  deeds." 
tears  of  joy  and  gra- 
an    I   ever  hope  to 

m 

iffrey.     Give  me  back 
1 1  shall  be  more  than 


TUB     M^NCTONrt. 


333 


repaid.  Besides,  my  lad,  I  am  neither  so  good  nor  so  dislntt-r- 
tstcd  UH  you  give  me  credit  for.  I  hate,  detest,  despise  that 
uncle  of  yours,  and  I  know  the  best  way  to  annoy  him  is  to 
befriend  you,  and  get  you  safe  out  of  Ills  villainous  f^IutirlicH. 
Tliis  is  imrdly  doing  as  I  would  bo  done  by,  but  I  can't  help  it. 
No  one  blames  another  for  taking  a  fly  out  of  a  spider's  web, 
when  the  poor  devil  is  shrieking  for  help,  although  he  be  the 
spider's  lawful  prey.  But  who  does  not  applaud  a  man  for 
rescuing  his  fellow  man  from  the  grasp  of  a  cannibal — and  that 
Robert  Monctou  is  a  regular  mun-eater— a  wretch  who  grows 
fat  upon  the  substance  of  his  neighbors." 

I  could  hardly  help  laughing  at  this  outbreak  of  temper  on 
the  part  of  my  worthy  kinsman. 

"  By  the  by,  Geoffrey ,'  said  he,  "  have  you  dined  7" 

"  At  the  last  inn  we  stopped  at  on  the  road." 

"  The  Hart ;  a  place  not  very  famous  for  good  cheer.  Their 
beef  is  generally  as  hard  as  their  deer's  horns.  Let  mo  order  up 
refreshments." 

"  By  no  means.  You  forget,  Sir  Alexander,  that  of  late  I 
have  not  been  much  used  to  good  living.  The  friend  on  whose 
charity  I  have  been  boarding  is  a  poor  fellow  like  myself." 

"  Well,  we  must  have  our  chat  over  a  glass  of  old  wine." 

He  rang  the  bell.  The  wine  was  soon  placed  upon  the  table, 
and  most  excellent  it  proved.  I  was  weak  from  my  long  con- 
finement to  a  sick  chamber,  and  tired  with  my  journey  ;  I  never 
enjoyed  a  glass  of  wine  so  mach  ia  my  life. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Moncton,  Geoffrey  ?" 

"  It  ia  a  glorious  old  place." 

"  Wish  it  were  yours— don't  you  ?     Confes*^  the  truth,  now." 

"  Some  fifty  years  hence,"  I  said,  laughing. 

"  You  would  be  too  old  to  enjoy  it,  Geoff  ;  but  wait  patiently 
God's  good  time,  and  it  may  be  yours  yet.  There  was  a  period 
ia  my  life  ;"  and  he  sighed  a  long,  deep,  regretful  sigh,"  when  I 


234 


TIIK     MuNCrONB. 


i*« 


hoped  that  a  son  of  tnhie  would  be  master  here,  but  as  that  can* 
not  be,  and  I  aiir  doomed  to  leave  uo  male  heir  to  my  name  and 
title,  1  know  uo  one  whom  I  would  rather  see  in  the  old  place 
than  my  uonuin  Edward's  sou." 

"  Vonr  attachment  to  my  father  must  hare  been  great,  when, 
after  so  muny  years,  you  extend  it  to  his  sou." 

"  Yes,  Ueoffrey,  I  loved  that  wild,  mad-cap  father  of  yours 
better  tiian  I  ever  loved  one  of  my  own  sex  ;  but  I  suffered  one 
rush  action  to  separate  hearts  which  were  formed  by  nature  to 
understand  and  appeciate  each  other.  You  are  not  acquainted 
with  this  portion  of  the  family  history.  Pass  the  bottle  this 
way,  and  I  will  enlighten  your  ignorance." 

"  When  your  grandfather,  in  the  plenitude  of  his  worldly 
wisdom,  for  he  had  a  deal  of  the  fox  in  his  character,  left  the 
guardianship  of  his  sons  to  his  aged  father,  it  was  out  of  uo 
respect  for  the  old  gentleman,  who  had  cust  him  off  rather  uu- 
cci  -moniously,  when  bis  plebeian  tastes  led  Mm  to  prefer  being 
a  rich  citizen,  rather  than  a  poor  gentleman  ;  but  lie  found,  that 
though  be  had  amassed  riches,  he  had  lost  caste,  and  he  hoped 
by  this  act  to  restore  his  sons,  for  whom  he  had  acquired  wealth, 
to  their  proper  position  in  society. 

"  My  grandfather,  Sir  Robert,  grumbled  a  good  deal  at 
being  troubled  with  the  guardianship  of  the  lads  in  his  old  age. 
But  when  be  saw  those  youthful  scions  of  his  old  house,  be  was 
BO  struck  with  their  beauty  and  taleuts,  that  from  that  hour 
they  held  an  equal  place  in  his  affections  with  myself,  the  only 
ciiild  of  his  eldest  son,  and  heir  to  his  estates. 

"  I  was  an  extravagant,  reckless  young  fellow  of  eighteen, 
when  my  cousins  first  came  to  live  at  Moncton  ;  and  I  hailed 
tlieir  advent  with  delight.  Edward,  I  told  you  before,  had  been 
an  old  chum  of  mine  at  school ;  and  when  Robert  was  placed 
iu  a  lawyer's  office,  he  accorupanied  me  to  college  to  finish  my 
education.     He  was  intended  to  fill  his  father's  place  in  the  mer 


*■.  ,,. 


1 


re,  but  as  that  can* 
li'it  to  my  name  uiid 
see  in  tlie  old  place 

«  been  great,  when, 

up  father  of  yours 
;  but  I  suffered  one 
brmod  by  nature  to 
are  not  acquainted 
Eiss  the  bottle  this 

Lide  of  his  worldly 
character,  left  the 
',  it  was  out  of  no 
;  him  off  rather  uu- 
Mm  to  prefer  being 
;  but  lie  found,  that 
caste,  and  he  hoped 
ad  acquired  wealth, 

id  a  good  deal  at 
s  lads  in  his  old  age. 
is  old  house,  be  was 
lat  from  that  hour 
ith  myself,  the  only 

8. 

fellow  of  eighteen, 
icton  ;  and  1  hailud 
^ou  before,  had  been 
Robert  was  placed 
college  to  finish  my 
r's  place  in  the  mer 


TUB     MONCTONH. 


225 


contih-  world,  but  he  had  little  talent  or  indinatim.  for  such  n 
life.  All  his  tuNtcs  were  decidedly  uristocralif,  and  I  fear  that 
luy  expensive  and  dissipated  hnbits  operated  unfavorably  on  his 
oiMjn,  generous,  social  disposition.  i 

"  With  a  thousand  good  qualities,  and  possessing  excellent 
talents.  K.iward  Moncton  was  easily  led  astray  by  the  bad 
example  of  others.  lie  was  a  fine  musician,  had  an  admirable 
voice,  a  brilliant  wit,  and  great  ttuency  of  speech,  which  can 
scarcely  be  called  advantageous  gifts,  to  those  who  don't  know 
how  to  make  a  proper  use  of  them. 

"  He  wuH  the  life  of  the  society  in  wh>;h  we  moved,  courted 
and  admired  wherever  he  went,  and  a  jolly  ;'me  we  bad  of  it,  I 
can  tell  you,  in  those  classicol  abodes  of  learning  a.id  sin. 

"  Edward  gave  mc  his  whole  ...art,  and  I  loved  him  with  the 
most  entire  affection.  But,  though  I  saw  thut  my  example 
acted  most  perniciously  on  his  easy  disposition,  I  wanted  the 
moral  courage  to  give  up  a  course  of  gaiety  and  vice,  in  order 
to  save  him  from  ruin. 

"  Poor  Edward  !— I  would  give  worlds  to  recall  the  past. 
But  the  bad  seed  was  sown,  and  in  time  we  reaped  the  bitter 
fruits. 

"  With  all  my  faults— I  was  never  a  gambler  ;  women,  wine, 
and  extravagant  living,  were  my  chief  derelictions  fVom  the  paths 
of  rectitude. 

"  But  even  while  yielding  to  these  temptations,  I  was  neither 
an  habitual  drunkard  nor  a  heartless  seducer  of  innocence, 
though  I  frequented  haunts,  where  both  characters  were  con- 
Btantlv  found,  and  ranked  many  such  men  among  my  chosen 
friends  and  associates.  My  moral  guilt,  was  perhaps  as  great 
as  theirs  ;  for  it  is  vain  for  a  man  to  boast  of  his  not  being  intem- 
perate, because  nature  has  furnished  him  with  nerves,  which 
enable  him  to  drink,  in  defiance  to  reason,  quantities  which  would 
deprive  the  larger  portion  of  men  of  their  senses. 

10* 


m 


226 


THE    MJNCT0N8. 


"  Your  fttlber  thought,  boylike,  for  he  was  full  three  years 
my  junior,  to  prove  his  title  to  manhood  by  following  closely  in 
my  steps,  and  too  soon  felt  the  evil  effects  of  such  a  leader, 
He  wasted  his  health  in  debauchery,  and  wine  maddened  him. 
The  gaming-table  held  out  its  allurements,  he  wanted  fortitude 
to  resist  its  temptation,  and  was  the  loser  to  a  considerable 
amount. 

"  He  kept  this  a  secret  from  me.  He  was  a  minor,  and  he 
feared  that  it  might  reach  my  grandfather's  ears,  and  that  Sur 
Robert  would  stop  the  supplies,  until  his  debts  were  paid. 

"  I  heard  of  it  through  a  mutual  friend,  and  very  consistently 
imagined  the  crime  far  greater  tlian  any  that  I  had  committed. 

"  The  night  before  we  left  college,  I  followed  him  to  his  favo- 
rite rendezvous,  which  was  held  in  the  rooms  of  a  certain  young 
nobleman,  unknown  to  the  authorities,  where  students  who  were 
known  to  belong  to  wealthy  parents,  met  to  play  hazard  and 
ecart6,  and  lose  more  money  at  a  sitting,  than  could  be  replaced 
by  the  economy  of  years. 

"  I   was  not  one  of   Lord 's  clique,  and  I  sent  my 

card  to  Edward  by  a  friend,  requesting  to  speak  to  him  on  a 
matter  of  importance.  After  some  delay,  he  came  out  to  me. 
Hb  was  not  pleased  at  being  disturbed,  and  was  much  flushed 
with  wine. 
"  '  What  do  you  want,  Alick  V  he  said,  in  no  very  gentle  tones. 
"  '  I  want  you,  to  come  and  help  me  prepare  for  our  journey 
to-morrow.' 

'"There  will  be  plenty  of  time  for  that,  by-and-by.  I  am 
engaged,  and  don't  choose  to  be  dictated  to  like  a  school-boy.' 

"  '  You  are  mad,'  said  I,  taking  hold  of  his  arm,  '  to  go 
there  at  all.  Tliose  fellows  will  cheat  you  out  of  every  penny 
you  have.' 

"  '  That's  my  own  look-out.  I  tell  you  once  for  all,  Alick,  I 
don't  choose  you  to  ride  rough-shod  over  me,  because  you  fancy 


THE     M  O  N  C  T  O  N  S  . 


22 1 


8  full  three  years 

bllowing  closely  in 

of  sach  a  leader. 

ne  maddened  him. 

8  wanted  fortitude 
to  a  considerable 

9  a  minor,  and  he 
eara,  and  that  Sir 
;8  were  paid. 

id  very  consistently 
I  had  committed, 
red  him  to  his  favo- 
of  a  certain  young 
students  who  were 
;o  play  hazard  and 
a  could  be  replaced 

3,  and  I  sent  my 
speak  to  him  on  a 
le  came  out  to  me. 
I  was  much  flushed 

10  very  gentle  tones. 
>are  for  our  journey 

,  by-and-by.     I  am 
like  a  school-boy.' 
if  his  arm,  '  to  go 
out  of  every  penny 

mce  for  all,  Alick,  I 
e,  because  you  fancy 


yourself  superior.     I  will  do  as  I  please.     I  have  lo.st  a  deal  of 
money  to-night,  and  I  mean  to  play  on  until  I  win  it  hack.' 

" '  You  will  only  lose  more.  You  ar-  it  In  a  fit  state  to 
deal  with  sharpers.  You  are  so  tipsy  now,  you  can  hardly 
Btand.' 

"  As  I  said  this,  I  put  my  arm  around  him  to  lead  him  away, 
when  he,  maddened  I  suppose  by  drink  and  his  recent  losses, 
burst  from  mo,  and  curning  sharp  round,  struck  ms  a  violent 
blow  on  th'^  face.  '  Let  that  satisfy  you,  whether  I  am  drunk 
or  sober,'  pud  with  a  bitter  laugh,  he  returned  to  the  party  he 
had  quitted. 

"  Geoffrey,  I  felt  that  blow  in  my  heart.  The  disgrace  was 
little  in  comparison  to  the  consciousness  that  it  came  from 
his  hand— the  hand  of  the  friend  I  loved.  I  could  have 
returned  the  injury  with  tenfold  interest.  But  I  did  nothing  of 
the  sort  I  fctood  looking  after  him  with  dim  eyes  and  a  swel- 
ling heart,  repealing  to  myself — 

"  '  Is  it  possible  that  Edward  struck  me  ?' 

"That  blow,  however,  achieved  a  great  moral  reformation. 
It  led  me  to  think-  to  examine  my  past  life,  and  to  renounce 
for  ever  those  follies,  which  I  now  felt  were  debasing  to  both 
soul   and  body,  and  unworthy   the  pursuit  of   any   rational 

creature. 

"  The  world  expected  me,  as  a  gentleman,  to  ask  satisfaction 
of  Edward  for  the  insult  I  had  received. 

"  I  set  the  world  and  its  false  laws  at  defiance. 

"  I  returned  to  my  lodgings  and  wrote  him  a  brief  note, 
telling  him  that  I  forgave  him,  and  gently  remonstrating  with 
him  on  the  violence  of  his  conduct. 

"  Instead  of  answering,  or  apologizing  for  what  he  had  done, 
he  listened  to  the  advice  of  a  pack  of  senseless  idiots,  who 
denounced  me  as  a  coward,  and  lauded  bis  rash  act  to  the 
aki«s. 


THE     UONCrONS. 


"  To  seek  a  reconciliation,  would  be  to  lose  his  independence, 
they  said,  and  prove  to  the  world  that  he  had  been  in  the 
wrong. 

"  T,  on  mj  part,  was  too  proud  to  solicit  his  friendahip,  and 
left  London  before  the  effort  of  mutual  friends  had  effected  a 
change  in  his  feelings. 

"  Porhaps,  as  the  injnrer,  he  never  forgave  me  for  being  the 
originator  of  the  quarrel — h^  that  as  it  may,  we  never  met 
again.  My  grandfather  iLl  shortly  after.  I  formed  an  nnfor- 
tnnate  attachment  to  a  person  far  beneath  me  in  rank,  and  but 
for  the  horror  of  entailing  upon  myself  her  worthless  mother, 
would  certainly  nave  made  her  my  wife. 

"  To  avoid  falling  into  this  snare,  I  went  abroad  for  several 
years,  and  ultimately  married  a  virtuous  and  lovely  woman,  and 
became  a  h<tppy  husband  and  father,  and  I  hope  a  better 
man." 

The  Baronet  ceased  speaking  for  a  few  minutes,  then  said 
with  a  half  smile  : 

"  Geoff,  men  are  sad  fools.  After  losing  that  angel,  I  came 
very  near  marrying  my  old  flame,  who  was  a  widow  at  the  time, 
and  as  handsome  as  ever.  She  died  mo^t  opportunely,  1  am 
now  convinced,  for  my  comfort  and  respectability,  and  I  gave 
op  all  idea  of  taking  a  second  wife." 

This  account  tallied  exactly  with  Harrison's  story,  which  had 
given  me  a  key  t(  the  Baronet's  history.  I  inquired,  rather 
anxiously,  if  he  and  my  father  remained  unre:!onciled  up  to  the 
period  of  his  death. 

"  I  wrote  to  him  frequently,  Geoffrey,  when  time  had  healed 
the  wound  he  inflicted  on  my  heart,  but  he  never  condescended 
to  reply  to  any  of  my  communications.  I  have  since  thought 
that  he  did  write,  and  that  his  brother  Robert,  who  was  always 
jealoiis  of  our  friendship,  destroyed  the  letters.  I  aosnre  you, 
that  this  annatnral  estrangement  formed  one  of  the  saddest 


?R»IS- 


his  indepeudence, 
had  been  in  the 

his  friendabip,  and 
ds  had  effected  a 

me  for  being  the 
y,  we  never  met 
[  formed  an  nnfor- 
B  in  rank,  and  but 
worthless  mother, 

ibroad  for  several 
ovelj  woman,  and 
I  hope  a  better 

linates,  then  said 

^at  angel,  I  came 
ridow  at  the  time, 
)pportnnely,  1  am 
lilitj,  and  I  gave 

I  story,  which  had 
[  inquired,  rather 
::onciled  up  to  the 

Q  time  had  healed 
ever  condescended 
ive  since  thought 
;,  who  was  always 
'8.  I  aosnre  you, 
le  of  the  saddest 


THE     HONCTONg. 


229 


events  in  my  life  ;  and  for  the  love  I  still  bear  his  memory,  I 
will  never  desert  his  orphan  son." 

I  thanked  the  worthy  Baronet  again  and  again,  for  the  gene- 
rous treatment  I  had  received  from  him,  and  w  narted  at  a  late 
hour,  mutnally  pleased  with  each  other. 


230 


THfC     MONCTONB. 


CHAPTER     XXII. 

A   SAD   E'ENT. 

A  FKW  weeks'  residence  found  me  quite  at  home  at  the  Hall. 
My  new-found  relatives  treated  me  with  the  affectionate  famili- 
arity that  exists  between  old  and  long-tried  friends.  I  ceased 
to  feel  myself  the  despised  jwwr  reiation—n  creature  rarely  loved 
and  always  in  the  way,  expected  to  be  the  recipient  of  all  the 
kicks  and  cuffs  of  the  family  to  whom  his  ill-fortane  has  made 
him  an  attach6,  and  to  return  the  base  coin  with  smiles  and 
flattering  speeches. 

Of  all  lots  iu  this  hard  world,  the  hardest  to  bear  must  be 
that  of  a  domestic  sneak  ;  war,  war  to  the  knife  is  better  than 
such  humiliating  servitude.  I  could  neither  fawn  nor  cringe, 
and  the  Baronet,  ^ho  was  a  high-spirited  man  himself,  loved  me 
for  my  independence. 

The  summer  had  just  commenced.  No  hunting,  no  shooting 
to  wile  away  an  idle  hour.  But  Sir  Alexander  was  as  fond  of 
old  Izaak  Walton's  gentle  craft,  as  that  accomplished  piscator, 
and  we  often  rose  at  early  dawn  to  stroll  through  the  dewy  pas- 
tures to  the  stream  that  crossed  the  park,  whicli  abounded  with 
trout,  and  I  soon  became  an  excellent  angler,  and  could  hook 
my  fish  in  the  most  scientific  manner. 

When  the  days  were  not  propitious  for  our  sport,  I  accompa- 
nied Sir  Alexander  in  his  rides,  in  visiting  his  model  farms, 
examining  the  progress  of  his  crops,  the  making  of  hay,  the 
improved  breeds  of  sheep  and  cattle,  and  all  such  healthy  and 
rural  employments,  in  which  he  took  a  patriarchal  delight. 


•iii,« 


iiw   ^~ 


THB    M ONOTONS. 


981 


I. 


b  home  at  the  Hall. 
e  afifectionate  faniili- 
d  friends.  I  ceased 
;reature  rarely  loved 
!  recipient  of  all  the 
ill-fortune  has  made 
coin  with  smiles  and 

lest  to  bear  must  be 
e  knife  is  better  than 
ler  fawn  nor  cringe, 
lan  himself,  loved  me 

hunting,  no  shooting 
ander  was  as  fond  of 
ccomplished  piscator, 
hrough  the  dewy  pas- 
whiclt  abounded  with 
igler,  and  could  hook 

)ur  sport,  I  accompa- 
ng  his  model  farms, 
i  making  of  hay,  the 
all  such  healthy  and 
riarchal  delight. 


Margaretta  qfencrally  accompanied  m  on  these  expeditions. 
She  was  an  excellent  equestrian,  and  managed  her  high-bred 
^  roan  with  much  skill  and  ease,  never  disturbing  the  pleasure  of 
the  ride  by  nervous  or  childish  fears. 

"  Madge  is  a  capital  rider  !"  would  the  old  Baronet  exclaim. 
"  I  taught  her  myself.  There  is  no  affectation— no  show-off 
airs  ill  lier  riding.  She  does  that  as  she  does  everything  else,  ia 
a  qu'u't,  natural  way." 

The  enjoyment  of  our  country  life  was  seldom  disturbed  by 
visitors.  All  the  great  folks  were  in  London  ;  the  beauties  of 
nature  pos.sessing  far  less  attractions  for  them  than  the  sophisti- 
cated gaieties  of  the  season  in  town. 

If  his  youth  had  been  dissipated,  Sir  Alexander  courted 
retirement  in  age,  and  was  perfectly  devoted  to  the  quiet  happi- 
ness of  a  domestic  life, 

Margaretta,  who  shared  all  his  tastes,  and  whose  presence 
appeared  necessary  to  his  existence,  had  spent  one  season  in 
London,  but  cared  so  little  for  the  pleasures  of  the  metropolis, 
that  she  resisted  the  urgent  entreaties  of  her  female  friends  to 
accompany  them  to  town  a  second  time, 

"I  hate  London,  Cousin  Geoffrey.  There  is  no  room  in  its 
crowded  scenes  for  nature  and  truth.  Every  one  seems  intent 
upon  acting  a  lie,  and  living  in  defiance  of  their  reason  and  bet- 
ter feelings.  1  never  could  feel  at  home  there.  I  mistrusted 
myself  and  every  one  else,  and  never  knew  what  true  happiness 
was,  uutil  I  returned  to  the  unaffected  simplicity  of  a  countrjp 

life." 

These  sentiments  were  fully  reciprocated  by  me,  who  had 
passed,  within  the  smoky  walls  of  the  huge  metropolis,  the  most 
unhappy  period  of  my  life. 

Some  hours,  every  day,  were  devoted  by  Sir  Alexander  to 
business,  during  which  he  was  closely  closeted  with  Mr.  Hilton, 
his  steward,  and  to  disturb  him  at  such  times  was  regarded  by 
him  as  an  act  of  high  treason. 


382 


THE     I10NCT0N8, 


Duriag  these  hours,  Margaretta  aud  I  were  left  to  amuse 
ourselves  in  the  best  manner  we  could.  She  was  a  fine  piamst 
I  had  inherited  my  father's  passion  for  music,  and  was  neyer 
Led  of  listening  to  her  while  she  played.  If  the  wea  her  was 
unfavorable  for  a  ride  or  stroll  in  the  park,  I  '«'^\«'^°"^^?;  ^^ 
while  she  painted  groups  of  flowers  from  nature,  for  which  she 
had  an  exquisite  taste.  .         , 

The  time   fled  away  only  too  fast,  and   th.s  """f'K  ^^ 
amusement  and  mental  occupation  was  '^'^  ^'^f'f^l'l^'' 
,bose  chief  employment  for  years  had  been  conflned  to  musty 
parchments  in  a  dull,  dark  office. 

^  Our  twilight  rambles  through  the  glades  of  the  beaut.ful 
park,  at  that  witching  hour  when  both  eye  and  heart  are  keenly 
alive  to  sights  and  sounds  of  beauty,  possessed  for  me  the  great- 

'VloTd-but  only  as  a  brother  loves-the  dear,  enthusias- 
tic girl,  who  leaned  so  confidingly  on  »y/'•»^*'»««« /IX' 
eyes  lighted  up  from  the  very  fountain  of  passion  and  feehng. 
were  rained  to  mine  as  if  to  kindle  in  my  breast  the  fire  of 
Renins  that  emanated  from  her  own.  .     .        „„ 

Her  vivid    imagination,  fostered   in   solitude,  seized    upon 
everything  bright  and  beautiful  in  miture,  and  made  it  ber 

own. 

«  The  lips  of  Bong  burst  open 
And  til  e  words  of  fire  rushed  out." 

At  such  moments  it  was  impossible  to  regard  Margaretta  wUh 
indifference.  I  could  have  loved-nay.  adored-had  not  my 
mind  been  preoccupied  with  a  fturer  image. 

Margaretta  was  too  great  a  novice  in  affairs  of  the  he*rt  tc 
notice  the  guarded  coolness  of  my  homage.  My  society  afforded 
her  great  pleasure,  and  she  wanted  the  common-place  tact  of  b«i 
sex  to  disguise  it  from  me. 


THE     MONCTONS 


233 


rere  left  to  amuse 
was  a  fine  pianist. 

jic,  and  was  never 

If  the  weather  was 
read  aloud  to  her, 

tare,  for  which  she 

this  mingling  of 

y  delightful  to  me, 

confined  to  musty 

IS  of  the  beautiful 
nd  heart  are  keenly 
ed  for  me  the  great- 

the  dear,  enthusias- 
irm,  whose  glorious 
passion  and  feeling, 
r  breast  the  fire  of 

litude,  seized  upon 
5,  and  made  it  J»er 


It" 

ard  Margaretta  with 
idored— had  not  my 

e. 

rairs  of  the  heart,  tc 

My  society  afforded 

unon-plftce  tact  of  b"T 


Dear,  lovely,  confiding  Margaretta,  how  beautiful  does  your 
simple  truth  and  disinterested  affection  appear,  as  1  looii  buck 
through  the  long  vista  of  years,  and  find  in  the  world  so  few  who 
resemble  thee  ! 

Towards  the  close  of  a  hot  day  in  June  we  visited  the  fra- 
grant fields  of  new-mown  hay,  and  Margaretta  tired  herself  by 
chasing  a  pair  of  small,  coquettish  blue  butterflies,  who  hovered 
along  the  hedge,  that  bounded  the  dusty  highway,  like  living 
gems,  and  not  succeeding  in  capturing  the  shy  things,  she  pro- 
posed leaving  the  road,  and  returning  home  through  the  Park. 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  I.  "  We  will  rest  under  your 
favorite  beech,  while  you,  dear  Madge,  sing  with  your  sweet 
voice,  the 

"  Drowsy  world  to  rest." 

We  crossed  a  stile  and  entered  one  of  the  broad,  green  arcades 
of  the  glorious    Id  park. 

For  some  time  we  reposed  upon  the  velvet  sward,  beneath 
Margaretta's  favorit*  tree.  The  slanting  red  beams  of  the  set- 
ting sun  scarcely  forced  their  way  through  the  thickly  interiaced 
boughs  v>f  the  forest.  The  sparkling  wavelets  of  the  river  ran 
brawling  at  our  feet,  fighting  their  way  among  the  sharp  rocks 
that  opposed  a  barrier  to  their  downward  course.  We  bathed 
our  temples  in  the  cool,  clear  waters.  Margaretta  forgot  the 
dusty  road,  the  independent  blue  butterflies,  and  her  recent 

fatigue. 

"  There  is  no  music  after  all  like  the  music  of  nature,  Geof- 
frey," she  said,  untying  her  straw  bonnet,  and  throwing  it  on  the 
grass  beside  her,  while  she  shook  a  shower  of  glossy  black  ring- 
lets back  from  her  small  oval  face. 

"  Not  that  it  is  the  instrument,  but  the  soul  that  breathes 
through  it,  that  makes  the  music.  And  Nature,  pouring  her 
soul  into  these  waves,  and  stirring  with  her  plaintive  sighs  these 


D1 


tSi 


THE     MON0TON8. 


branches  above  as,  awakens  sounds  which  find  an  echo  in  tht 
heart  of  all  her  children,  who  remain  true  to  the  teachings  of 
the  divine  mother."  Then  turning  suddenly  to  me,,  she  said, 
"  Geoffrey,  cf>  you  sing?" 

To  please  myself.  I  play  upon  tiie  flute  much  better  than 
I  sing.  During  the  last  half  year  I  remained  with  ray  nnclo  I 
took  lessons  of  an  excellent  master,  and  havmg  a  good  ear,  and 
being  passionately  fond  of  music,  I  gained  considerable  profi- 
ciency.    I  had  been  an  amateur  performer  for  years." 

"  And  you  never  tola  me  one  word  of  this  before." 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  display  all  my  trifling  stock  of  accorapHsh- 
mentb  at  onct,"  said  I,  with  a  smile.  "  Those  who  possess  but 
little  are  wise  to  reserve  a  small  portion  of  what  thoy  have. 
You  shall  test  its  value  the  next  rainy  day." 

"  lu  the  absence  of  the  flute,  Geoffrey,  you  must  give  me  a 
song.  A  song  that  harmonizes  with  this  witching  hour  and 
holiday  timo  o'  the  year." 

"Then  it  mast  necessarily  be  a  love  song,"  said  1  ;  "youth 
and  spring  being  the  best  adapted  to  inspire  the  joyousness  of 

love." 

"Call  not  love  joyous,  Geoffrey;  it  is  a  sad  and  fearful  thing 
to  love.  Love  that  is  sincere  is  a  hidden  emotion  Of  the  heart  ; 
it  shrinks  from  vain  laughter,  and  is  most  eloquent  when  silent, 
or  only  ""evealed  by  tears." 

1  started,  and  turned  an  anxious  gaze  upon  her  pale,  spiritual 

face. 

y/httt  light  had  I  to  be  jealous  of  her  ?    I  who  was  devoted, 
to  another.     ^  'et  jualous  I  was,  and  answered  rather  oettishly  : 

"  You  talk  feelingly,  fair  couaiu,  as  if  you  ^^^  exper'.ei  csd 
the  -lassion  you  describe.  Have  you  tasted  the  bitter  sadness 
of  disappointed  love  If"  • 

'I  did  not  say  that."  And  she  blushed  deeply.  "Yoa 
chose  to  infer  it." 


id  an  echo  in  the 

0  the  teachings  of 
'  to  oie,.  she  said, 

much  better  than 
i  with  my  uncle  I 
ig  a  good  ear,  and 
considerable  proti- 
•  years." 
before." 

tock  of  accoraplish- 
le  who  possess  but 
f  what  thoy  have, 

lu  must  give  me  a 
vitchiug  hour  and 

;,"  said  I  ;  "  youth 

1  the  joyousness  of 

,d  and  fearful  thing 
otion  of  the  heart  j 
oquent  wheu  silent, 

tt  her  pale,  spiritual 

I  who  was  devote^ 
id  rather  oettishly  : 
)U  ^u^  exper'.eicad 
i  the  bitter  sadness 

led  deeply.    "You 


THB     M0NCT0N8, 


28ft 


I  did  not  reply.  The  image  of  Harrison  rose  in  ray  mind. 
For  tiie  first  lime  I  saw  a  strong  likeness  between  them.  Such 
a  likeness  as  is  often  found  between  persons  who  strongly 
assimilate  -whose  feelings,  tastes,  and  pursuits  are  the  same. 

Was  it  possible  that  she  liad  loved  him  ?  I  was  anxious  tc 
find  out  if  my.suspicions  were  true  ;  and  without  any  prelude 
t)r  apology  commenced  singing  a  little  air  that  George  had 
tought  me,,  both  music  and  words  being  his  owa. 

SONG. 

"  I  loved  you  long  and  tenderly, 

I  urged  my  buU  with  tears ; 
But  coldly  and  dliidainfully 

You  crushed  the  hope  of  year*. 
I  gazed  upon  your  glowing  cheek, 

I  met  your  flashing  eye  ; 
The  words  I  strove  in  v»in  to  speak 

Were  smothered  in  »  eigh. 

I  swore  to  love  you  faithfully, 

Till  death  should  bid  us  part ; 
But  proudly  and  reproachfully, 

You  spurned  a  loyal  heart. 
Despair  is  bold— you  turned  away. 

And  wished  we  ne'er  had  met, 
Through  many  a  long  and  weary  day 

That  parting  haunts  me  yet. 

Nor  think  that  chilling  apathy, 

Can  passion's  tide  repress — 
Ah,  no,  with  fond  idolatry, 

I  would  not  love  thee  less. 
Your  image  meets  me  in  the  crowd, 

Lik^  some  fair  beam  of  light, 
That  bursting  through  its  sombre  cloud 

Makes  giad  the  brow  of  night. 


TT 


28ti 


THK     UONOTONfl. 

Then  turn  my  hard  captivity, 

Nor  let  me  Hue  In  vulu,  , 

Whilnt  wUh  uniihaken  conntanoy, 

1  Ri'uk  your  feet  Again. 
One  Bmile  of  lliine  can  cheer  the  heart, 

Tlint  only  beats  to  bo 
United,  ne'er  again  to  part — 

My  life  t  ray  wul  1— from  thee. 


I  gang  my  best,  and  was  accounted  by  all  the  young  men 
of  my  ttcqunintam:e,  to  have  a  fine  manly  voice.  But  I  was  not 
rewarded  by  a  single  word  or  encouraging  smile. 

Murgaretta'a  head  was  bowed  upon  her  hands,  and  tears  were 
streaming  fast  through  her  slender  fingers. 

"Margaret,   '--rest  Margaret!"  for  in  speaking  to  her,  I 
always  dropped  the  Italianized  termination  of  her  name.     "  Are 
you  ill.     Do  speak  to  me." 
She  still  continued  to  weep. 
"  1  wish  I  had  not  sung  that  foolish  song." 
"It  was  only  sung  too  well,  Geoffrey."     And  she  slowly 
raised  her  head  and  put  back  the  hair  from  her  brow.    "  Ah, 
what  sad— what,  painful  recollections  t'oes  that  song  call  up. 
But  with  these,  you  have  nothing  to  do.     I  will  not  ask  you 
how  you  became  acquainted  with  that  air.     But  I  request  as  a 
great  favor,  that  you  never  sing  or  play  it  to  me  again." 

She  relapsed  into  silence,  which  I  longed  but  did  not  know 
bow  to  break.  At  length  she  rose  from  the  bank  on  which  we 
had  been  seated,  resumed  her  bonnet,  and  expressed  a  wish  to 

return  to  the  Hall. 

»  The  night  has  closed  in  very  fast,"  she  said,  "  or  is  the 
gloom  occasioned  by  the  shadow  of  the  trees  ?" 

•'  It  is  only  a  few  minutes  past  seven,  I  replied,  looking  at 
my  watch.  "The  hay-makers  have  not  yet  left  their  work." 
We  had  followed  the  course  of  the  stream,  on  our  homeward 


the  young  men 
But  I  was  not 


e. 


THE     U0KCT0N8. 


231 


is,  and  tears  were 

eaking  to  her,  I 
ber  name.     "  Are 


And  she  slowly 
her  brow.  "Ali, 
hat  song  call  up. 
will  not  ask  you 
But  I  request  as  a 
me  again." 
but  did  not  know 
bank  on  which  we 
xpressed  a  wish  to 

B  said,  "  or  is  the 
?" 

replied,  looking  at 

;  left  their  work." 

on  our  homeward 


path,  and  now  emerged  into  an  open  space  in  the  Park.  The 
sudden  twilight  which  had  descended  upon  us  was  caused  by  a 
htiavy  pile  of  thunder  clouds  that  hung  frowning  over  the 
wo(kI.s,  and  threatened  to  overtake  us  before  wc  could  reach  the 

Hull. 

"  How    still    and    deep  the  waters   He,"   said    Margaretta.  • 
"  There  is  not  a  breath  of  wind  to  ruffle  them  or  stir  the  trues. 
The  awful  stillness  which  precedes  a  storm  inspires  me  with 
more  dread,  than  when  it  launches  forth  with  all  its  terrific 

powers." 

"  Hark  1  There's  the  first  low  peal  of  thunder,  and  the  trees 
are  all  trembling  and  shivering  in  the  electric  blast  that  follows 
it.  How  sublimely  beautiful,  is  this  magnificent  war  of  ele- 
ments." 

"  It  is  very  true,  dear  cousin,  but  if  you  stand  gazing  at  the 
clouds,  we  shall  both  get  wet." 

"  GeoSfrey,"  said  Margaretta,  laughing,  "  there  is  nothing 
poetical  about  you." 

"I  have  been  used  to  the  commonest  prose  all  my  life, 
Madge.  But  here  we  are  at  the  fishing-house,  we  had  bettor 
stow  ourselves  away  with  your  father's  nets  and  tackles  until 
this  heavy  shower  is  over  " 

No  sooner  said  than  done.  We  crossed  a  rustic  bridge  which 
spanned  the  stream,  and  ascending  a  flight  of  stone  steps, 
reached  a  small  rough-cast  building,  open  in  front,  with  a  bench 
running  round  three  sides  of  it,  and  a  rude  oak  table  in  the 
middle,  which  was  covered  with  fishing-rods,  nets,  and  other 
tackle  belonging  to  the  gentle  craft. 

From  this  picturesque  shed  Sir  Alexander,  in  wet  weather, 
could  follow  his  favorite  sport,  as  the  river  ran  directly  below, 
and  it  was  considered  the  best  spot  for  angling,  the  water 
expanding  here  into  a  deep  still  pool,  which  was  much  fre- 
^juented  by  the  finny  tribe^ 


238 


THE     MONOTONS. 


I     :? 


!•■} 


Wo  were  both  goon  seated  iu  the  ivy-covered  porch,  the 
honeysuckle  hanging  its  perfumed  tassels,  dripping  with  the  rain, 
ubovo  our  heads,  while  the  clematis  and  briar-roso  gave  out  to 
tlic  shower  a  doable  portion  of  delicate  incense. 

Tiic  scene  was  in  unison  with  Miirgaretta's  poetical  tempera- 
ment.  She  enjoyed  it  with  her  whole  heart ;  her  beautiful  eyes 
brimful  of  love  and  adoration. 

The  landscape  varied  every  moment.  Now  all  was  black  and 
lowering  ;  lightnings  pierced  with  their  nrrowy  tongues  the 
heavy  foliage  of  the  frowning  woods,  and  loud  peals  of  thunder 
reverberated  among  the  distant  hills  ;  and  now  a  solitary  sun- 
beam struggled  through  a  rift  in  the  heavy  cloud,  and  lighted 
up  the  gloomy  scene  with  a  smile  of  celestial  beauty. 

Margaretta  suddenly  grasped  my  arm  ;  I  followed  the  direc- 
tion of  her  eye,  and  beheld  a  tall  female  figure,  dressed  in  deep 
mourning,  pacing  to  and  fro  on  the  bridge  we  had  just  crossed. 

Her  long  hair,  unconfined  by  cap  or  bandage,  streamed  m  wild 
confusion  round  her  wau  and  wasted  features,  and  regardless  of 
the  pelting  of  the  pitiless  storm,  she  continued  to  hurry  back- 
wards and  forwards,  throwing  her  hands  mto  the  air,  and 
striking  her  breast  like  one  possessed. 
"  Who  is  she  ?"  I  whispered. 

"The  wreck  of  all  that  once  was  beantiful,"  sighed  Margar- 
etta. "  It  is  Alice  Mornington,  the  daughter  of  one  of  my 
father's  tenants." 

"  Alice  Mornington  !     Good  Heavens  I  is  that  poor  mad- 
woman Alice  Mornington  ?" 
Margaretta  looked  surprised. 
"  Do  you  know  this  poor  girl  ?" 

I  felt  that  I  had  nearly  betrayed  myself,  and  stammered  out 
.'  Not  personally ;   I  know  something  of  her  private  history, 
which  I  heard  accidentally  before  I  came  here." 
"  Geoffrey,  no  sister  ever  loved  another  more  devotedly  than 


T  II  r,    M  O  N  C  T  0  i;  « . 


989 


tvered  porch,  the 
ping  with  the  rain, 
-roso  gave  out  to 

B. 

poetical  tenipora- 
her  beautiful  eyes 

all  was  black  and 
rowy  tongues  the 
il  pcals  of  thunder 
low  a  solitary  sun- 
cloud,  and  lighted 
beauty. 

followed  the  direc- 
•e,  dressed  in  deep 
I  had  just  crossed. 
[6,  streamed  in  wild 
,  and  regardless  of 
ued  to  hurry  back- 
iuto   the   air,  and 


il,"  sighed  Margar- 
iter  of  one  of  my 

is  that  poor  mad- 


eind  stammered  oat 

ler  private  history, 

re." 

nore  devotedly  thao 


I  loved  that  poor  girl— lliuii  I  love  ht-r  still.  After  slie  forHook 
the  path  of  virtue,  my  futlier  forbade  nie  having  the  hast  inter- 
course with  her.  My  heart  bleeds  to  see  her  thus.  I  cannot 
stand  calmly  by  and  witness  her  misery.  Stay  here,  while  I  go 
and  speuk  to  her." 

With  noiseless  tread  she  glided  down  the  stone  steps,  and 
gained  the  bridge.  The  quick  eye  of  the  maniac  (for  such  she 
appeared  to  be)  however,  had  detected  the  movemeut,  oud  with 
a  loud  shriek  she  flung  herself  into  the  water. 

To  spring  to  the  bank,  to  plunge  into  the  streom,  and  as  she 
rose  to  the  surface,  to  bear  the  wreUhed  girl  to  the  shore,  was 
but  the  work  of  a  moment.  Brief  as  the  time  was  that  had 
elapsed  between  the  rush  act  and  her  rescue,  she  was  already 
insensible,  and  with  some  difficulty  I  succeeded  in  currying  her 
up  the  steep  stairs  to  the  fishing  bouse. 

It  was  some  seconds  before  suspended  animation  returned, 
and  when  at  length  the  large  blue  eyes  unclosed,  Alice  awoke  to 
consciousness  on  the  bosom  of  the  fond  and  weeping  Mar- 
garelta. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Moncton  1"  sobbed  the  poor  girl,  "  why  did  you 

save  me— why  did  you  recall  me  to  a  life  of  misery— why  did 

you  not  let  me  die  when  the  agony  of  death  was  olready  over  ?" 

"  Dear  Alice  1"  said  Margaret,  soothingly,  "  what  tempted 

you  to  drown  yourself?  You  know  it  is  wrong  to  commit  a  deed 

like  this." 

"  I  was  driven  to  desperation  by  the  neglect  and  cruelty  of 

those  whom  I  love  best  on  earth." 

"  Do  not  reproach  me,  dear  Alice,"  said  Margaret,  almost 
choking  with  emotion.  "  It  is  not  in  my  nature  to  desert  those 
I  love.  My  heart  has  been  with  you  in  all  your  sorrows,  but  1 
dared  not  disobey  my  father." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Moncton,  it  was  not  of  you  J  spoke.  1  could 
not  expect  you  to  countenance  one  whom  the  whole  neighbor 


r 


240 


THR     M0NCT0N8, 


hood  joined  to  condemn.  If  others  had  only  treated  me  balf  as 
well,  I  should  not  have  been  reduced  to  sucli  etraita." 

"Alice,  you  must  not  stay  here  in  these  wet  clothes.  You  will 
get  your  death.     Lean  on  my  arm.     I  will  take  you  home." 

"  Home  1  I  have  no  home.  I  dare  not  go  home.  Slw  is 
there  !  and  she  will  taunt  me  with  this,  and  drive  me  mad  again." 

'*  Then  come  to  the  Hall,  Alice  ;  I  will  talk  to  you  there,  and 
no  one  shall  hear  us  but  your  own  Margaret." 

"  God  bless  you.  Miss  Moncton,  for  all  your  kindness.  It 
would,  indeed,  be  a  great  relief  to  tell  you  all  the  grief  that  fills 
my  heart.  Yes,  I  will  go  with  you  to-night.  The  morrow  may 
take  care  of  the  things  that  belong  to  it.  Now,  or  never. 
There  maj  be  no  to-morrow  on  earth  for  me." 

"  Cheer  up,  poor  heart.  There  may  be  happiness  in  store  for 
you  yet,"  said  Margaret. 

"  For  me  ?"  and  Alice  looked  up  with  an  incredulous  smile  ; 
so  sad,  so  dreary,  it  was  enough  to  make  you  weep,  that  wild 
glance  passing  over  her  wan  features.  "  Oh,  never  again  for 
me." 

She  suffered  herself  to  be  led  between  us  to  the  Hall.  Mar- 
garet directing  me  by  a  path  that  led  through  the  gardens  to  a 
private  entrance  at  the  back  of  the  house.  Alice  was  com- 
l)letely  exhausted  by  her  former  violence.  I  had  to  put  my  arm 
round  her  slender  waist,  to  support  her  up  the  marble  stair- 
case. I  left  her  with  Margaret,  at  her  chamber-door,  and 
retired  to  my  own  apartment,  to  change  my  wet  clothes. 

Miss  Moncton  did  not  come  down  to  tea. 

Sir  Alexander  was  in  the  fidgets  about  her.  "  Where's 
Madge?  T/hat  the  deuce  is  the  matter  with  the  girl.  She 
went  out  with  you,  Geoffrey,  as  fresh  as  a  lark.  I  will  hold  you 
responsible  for  her  non-appearance." 

I  thought  it  best  to  relate  what  bad  happened.  He  looked 
very  grave. 

"  A  sad  business.    A  very  sad  business.    I  wish  Madge 


C  H  li    M  O  N  C  T  0  K  .< 


241 


treated  me  half  as 

etraita." 

t  clothes.    You  will 
ake  you  home." 
t  go  home.     She  is 
rive  me  mad  agaiu." 
Ik  to  you  there,  and 

.  n 

your  kindness.  It 
A\  the  grief  that  fills 
,.  The  morrow  may 
it.    Now,  or  never. 

me." 
lappiness  in  store  for 

Q  incredulous  smile ; 
you  weep,  that  wild 
Oh,  never  agaiu  for 

,8  to  the  Hall.  Mar- 
ugh  the  gardens  to  a 
ise.  Alice  was  com- 
I  had  to  put  my  arm 
up  the  marble  stair- 
r  chamber-door,  and 
my  wet  clothes. 

a. 

bout  her.  "Where's 
•  with  the  girl.  She 
lark.    I  will  hold  you 

lappened.     He  looked 

ness.    I  wish  Madge 


would  kec;>  lier  hands  clear  of  that  girl.  I  am  sorry  for  her, 
too.  But  you  know,  Geoffrey,  we  cannot  set  the  opinion  of  the 
world  entirely  at  defiance.  And  what  a  man  may  do  with 
impunity,  a  young  lady  must  noi." 

"  Miss  Monctoa  has  acted  with  true  Christian  charity.  It  is 
a  thousand  pities  that  such  examples  are  so  rare." 

"  Don't  think  I  blame  Madge,  Geoffrey.  She  is  a  dear, 
good  girl,  a  little  angel.  But  it  is  rather  imprudent  of  her  to 
bring  the  mistress  of  Theophilus  home  to  the  house.  What  will 
Mrs.  Grundy  say  V 

"  Margaret  has  no  Mrs.  Gruudies,"  said  I,  rather  indignantly. 
"  She  will  not  admit  such  vulgar,  common-place  wretches  into 
her  society.    To  the  pure  in  heart  all  things  are  pure." 

"  Weil  done  !  young  champion  of  dames.  You  will  not  suffer 
Margaretta  to  be  blamed  without  taking  her  part,  I  see." 

"  Particularly,  sir,  when  I  know  and  feel  that  she  is  in  the 

right." 

"  She  and  I  must  have  a  Berions  talk  on  this  subject,  to-mor- 
row. In  the  meanwhile,  Geoff,  bring  her)  ibe  chess-board,  and 
let  us  get  thron  ,h  a  dull  eTening  in  the  best  way  we  can." 


'Jc^K. 


II 


I    i 


tnx     HONCTONI. 


ra 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 


of 
he 


A  DISOOTEKT. 

Tkk  next  morning  I  receivea  from  Margaretta,  a  circumstan- 
tial detail  of  what  had  passed  between  Alice  and  her  on  the 
previous  evening. 

"  After  I  undressed  and  got  her  to  bed,  she  fell  into  a  deep 
Bleep,  which  lasted  until  midnight.  I  was  reading  by  the  table, 
not  feeling  at  all  inclined  to  rest.  Hearing  her  moving,  1  went 
to  her,  and  sat  down  on  the  bed,  and   asked  how  slie  felt 

herself. 

" '  Better  in  mind,  Miss  Moncton,  but  far  from  well.    My  head 

aches  badly,  and  I  have  a  dull  pain  in  my  chest. 

" '  You  have  taken  cold,  Alice.     I  must  send  for  the  doctor.' 
" '  Oh  I  no,  no.     He  could  do  me  no  good — mine  is  a  malady 
of  the  heart.     If  my  mind  were  at  ease,  I  should  be  quite  well. 
I  do  not  wish  to  get  well.    The  sooner  I  die  the  better.' 
"  '  Alice,  you  must  not  talk  so.     It  is  very  sinful.' 
"  '  You  are  right.     I  am  a  great  sinner.     1  know  it  only  too 
well.    But  I  cannot  repent.     All  is  dark  here,'  and  she  laid  her 
hand  upon  her  head.     '  I  cannot  see  my  way  through  this  thick 
darkness— this  darkness  that  can  be  felt.     You   know.  Miss 
Moncton,  what  the  Bible  says,  "The  light  of  the  wicked  shall 
be  put  out  in  obscure  darkness."    My  light  of  life  has  been  extin- 
guished, and  the  night  of  eternal  darkness  has  closed  over  me.' 
" '  We  must  pray  to  God,  Alice,  to  enlighten  this  awful 
darkness.' 


wi 
ini 
oil 
m; 

th 
m 
re 


B 
b 

y 

tl 
h 
t( 
tl 
c 


I  m~ 


THE     MONOTONS. 


243 


itta,  a  circumstan* 
i  and  her  on  the 

e  fell  into  a  deep 
ding  by  the  table, 
ler  moving,  1  went 
ked  how  she   felt 

om  well.    My  head 

(St. 

nd  for  the  doctor.' 
—mine  is  a  malady 
oald  be  quite  well, 
the  better.' 

sinful.' 

1  know  it  only  too 
e,'  and  she  laid  her 
'  through  this  thick 
You  know,  Miss 
>f  the  wicked  shall 

life  has  been  extin- 
as  closed  over  me.' 
ilighten  this  awful 


•* '  Prny  !—  I  cannot  pray.  1  am  too  hard— too  proud  to  pray. 
God  has  forsaken  and  left  me  to  myself.  If  I  could  diecern  one 
ray  of  lii^ht— one  faint  glimmer  only,  I  might  cherish  hope.' 

"  There  war.  something  so  truly  melancholy,  in  this  description 
of  the  state  of  her  mind,  GeoflFrey,  that  I  could  not  listen  tc 
her  with  dry  eyes. 

"  Alice,  for  her  part,  shed  no  tears,  but  regarded  my  emotions 
with  a  look  of  mingled  pity  and  surprise,  while  tiie  latent 
insanity,  under  which  I  am  sure  she  is  laboring,  kindled  a  glow 
on  her  death-pale  face.     Rising  slowly  in  the  bed,  she  grasped 

my  arm. 

"  '  Why  do  you  weep  ?  Do  you  dare  to  think  me  guilty  of 
that  nameless  crime  ?  Margaretta  Moncton,  you  should  know 
me  better.  Don't  you  remember  the  ballad  we  once  learned  tc 
repeat,  when  we  were  girls  together  ? — 

•"Not  mine  to  scowl  a  guilty  eye, 
Or  bear  the  brand  of  shame  ; 
Oh,  God !  to  brook  the  taunting  look 
Of  Fillan's  wedded  dame. 

"  '  But  the  lady  bore  the  brand  in  spite  of  all  her  boaiting. 
But  I  do  not.  I  am  a  wife— //m  lawful  wedded  wife,  and  my 
boy  was  no  child  of  shame,  and  he  dare  not  deny  it.  And 
yet,'  she  continued,  falling  back  upon  her  pillow,  and  clutching 
the  bed-clothes  in  her  convulsive  grasp,  'he  spurned  me  from 
him— me,  his  ,'ife— the  mother  of  his  child.  Yes,  Miss  Monc- 
ton, spurned  me  from  his  presence,  with  hard  words  and  bitter 
taunts.  I  could  have  borne  the  loss  of  his  love,  for  I  have  long 
ceased  to  respect  him.     But  this— this  has  maddened  me.' 

"I  was  perfectly  astonished  at  his  unexpected  disclosure. 
Seeing  doubt  expressed  in  my  face,  she  grew  angry  and  vehement. 

'"It  is  true.  Why  do  you  doubt  my  word?  I  scorn  to 
utter  a  falsehood.  When,  Miss  Moncton,  did  I  ever  during  our 
long  friendship  deceive  you  V 


i 


"5 


1 


244 


THE     MOKCTOiVS. 


m 


" '  Nevei ,  Alice.  Bat  yonr  story  seemed  improbable.  Like 
yon,  I  iim  in  the  habit  of  speaking  fearlessly  my  mind.' 

"  She  drew  from  her  bosom  a  plain  gold  ring,  suspended  by  a 
black  ril)boii  round  ber  neck. 

"  '  With  this  ring  we  were  married  in  Moncton  church.  Our 
bans  were  published  there,  in  your  father's  hearing,  but  he  took 
no  heed  of  tiie  parties  named.  I  have  the  certificate  of  my 
marriage,  and  Mr.  Selden,  who  married  us  under  the  promise  of 
secresy,  can  prove  the  truth  of  what  I  say.  The  marriage  was 
private,  because  Theophilus  was  afraid  of  incurring  his  father's 
anger.' 

"  '  And  what  has  become  of  your  child,  Alice  V 
"  '  lie  is  dead,'  she  said,  mournfully.  '  He  caught  cold, 
during  a  long  journey  to  London,  which  I  undertook  unkno-vn 
to  my  grandmother,  in  the  hope  of  moving  the  hard  heart  of  my 
cruel  husband.  It  was  of  no  earthly  use.  I  lost  my  child,  and 
the  desolate  heart  of  the  forsaken,  is  now  doubly  desolate.' 

•'  The  allusion  to  her  baby  seemed  to  soften  the  iron  obstinacy 
of  her  grief,  and  she  gave  way  to  a  passionate  burst  of  tears. 
This,  I  have  no  doubt  tranquillized  her  mind.  She  grew  calmer 
and  more  collected — consented  to  take  some  refreshments,  and 
then  unfolded  to  me  at  length,  the  tale  of  her  wrongs. 

"  Oh,  Geoffrey  I  what  a  monster  that  Theophilus  Moncton 
must  be.  I  may  be  wrong  to  say  so,  but  I  almost  wish  thai 
I)Oor  Alice  were  not  his  wife,  and  so  will  you,  after  you  have 
heard  all  that  I  have  to  tell  you. 

"  Theophilus,  it  appears,  from  her  statements,  took  a  fancy  to 
Alice,  when  she  was  a  mere  child,  and  his  passion  strengthened 
for  her  at  every  visit  he  subsequently  paid  to  the  Hall. 

"  After  using  every  inducement  to  overcome  her  integrity, 
rattier  than  lose  his  victim,  he  proposed  a  private  marriage. 

"  This  gratified  the  ambition  of  the  unfortunate  girl,  who 
knew,  that  in  case  of  mj  father  djing  without  male  issue,  her 


"'■Slim 


mprobable.    Like 

ny  iniiui.'  "" 

ig,  suspended  by  a 

;ton  church.  Our 
aring,  but  he  took 
certificate  of  my 
ider  the  promise  of 
The  marriage  was 
lurring  his  father's 

ice?' 

He  caught  cold, 
ndertook  unkno'vn 
e  hard  heart  of  my 
lost  my  child,  and 
ibly  desolate.' 
1  the  iron  obstinacy 
ate  burst  of  tears. 
She  grew  calmer 
s  refreshments,  and 
r  wrongs. 

Iieophilus  Moncton 
I  almost  wish  thai 
ou,  after  you  have 

Qts,  took  a  fancy  to 
dssion  strengthened 
I  the  Hall. 
3ome  her  integrity, 
ivate  marriage, 
fortunate  girl,  who 
out  male  issue,  her 


THE     MONOTONS. 


946 


lover  would  be  the  heir  of  Moncton.  She  was  only  too  glad  to 
clcse  with  his  ofTt-T,  and  they  were  married  in  tlie  parish  church 
by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Selden,  all  the  parties  necessary  to  the  perfor- 
mance of  the  cereruo;  y  being  sworn  and  bribed  to  secresy. 

"  For  a  few  months  Theophilua  lavished  on  his  young  bride 
great  apparent  affection,  and  at  this  period,  his  visits  to  the 
Hall  were  very  frequent. 

"  Alice,  who  had  always  been  treated  like  a  sister  h^  me,  now 
grew  pert  and  familiar.  This  alteration  in  her  former  respectful 
manner  greatly  displeased  my  father,  'These  Morningtons,' 
he  said,  '  are  unworthy  of  the  kindness  we  have  bestowed  upon 
them,  and  like  all  low  people,  when  raised  above  their  station, 
they  become  insolent  and  familiar.' 

"  Rumor  had  always  ascribed  young  Moncton's  visits  to  the 
Hall,  to  an  attachment  be  had  formed  for  me.  The  gossips  of 
the  village  changed  then*  tone,  and  his  amoar  with  Alice  became 
the  scandal  of  the  day. 

"  My  father  having  ascertained  that  there  was  some  trnth 
in  these  infamous  reports,  sent  me  to  spend  my  first  winter  in 
London,  with  Lady  Grey,  my  mother's  only  sister,  and  told 
Dinah  North  that  her  grand-daughter  for  the  future  would  be 
considered  as  a  stranger  by  his  family. 

"  I  wrote  to  Alice  from  London,  telling  her  that  I  could  not 
believe  the  evil  things  said  of  her ;  and  begged  her,  as  she 
valued  my  love  and  friendship,  to  lose  no  time  in  cleiaring  up 
the  aspersions  cast  upon  her  character. 

"To  my  earnest  and  affectionate  appeal,  she  returned  n<r an- 
swer, and  all  intercourse  between  hs  ceased. 

"  Three  months  after  this,  she  became  a  mother,  and  my  father 
forbade  me  to  mention  her  name. 

"  It  appears,  that  from  this  period  she  saw  little  of  her  hus- 
band. That  he,  repenting  bitterly  of  his  sudden  marriage,  trt^ted 
her  with  coldness  and  neglect 


1 


.1 


4 


j«;rivl  .- 


246 


TUB     M0N0T0N3. 


"Dinah  North,  who  wfts  privy  to  her  marriage,  tock  a  jour- 
ney  to  London,  to  try  and  force  Mr.  Moncton  to  acknowledge 
her  granddaughter  as  his  Bon'a  wife  ;  in  case  of  his  refusal  threat- 
ening to  expose  conduct  of  his  which  would  not  bear  investi- 

^"-' Dinah  failed  in  her  missiou-and  my  dear  father,  pitying 
the  condition  of  the  forlorn  girl,  sought  himself  an  mterview 
with  Mr.  Moncton  on  her  behalf,  in  which  he  begged  your 
uncle  to  use  his  influence  with  Theophilus,  to  make  her  his 

wife* 

"The  young  man  had  been  sent  abroad,  and  Mr.  Moncton 
received  my  father's  proposition  with  indignation  and  contempt, 
and  threatened  to  disinherit  Theophilus  if  he  dared  to  take  such 
a  step  without  his  knowledge  and  consent. 

•  la  the  meanwhile,  the  unfortunate  Alice,  withering  beneath 
the  blighting  influence  of  hope  deferred,  and  unmerited  neglect, 
lost  her  health,  her  beauty,  and  by  her  own  account,  at  times 

her  reason.  ^^     i     i     i 

"Hearing  that  her  husband  had  returned  to  England,  she 

wrote  to  him  a  letter  full  of  forgiveness,  and  breathing  the  most 

di^voted  affection-aud  told  him  of  the  birth  of  his  son,  whom 

she  described,  with  all  a  mother's  doting  love. 

"  To  this  letter  sho  received,  after  a  long  and  torturmg  delay, 

the  following  unfeeling  answer.     She  gave  me  this  precious 

document.  »  .    ,■       x- 

"  Read  it,  Geoffrey.     It  puts  me  into  a  fever  of  indignation  ; 

I  cannot  read  it  a  second  time." 

1  took  the  letter  from  her  hand. 

How  well  I  knew  that  scrupulously  neat  and  feminme  speci- 
men of  caligraphy.  It  was  an  autograph  worthy  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  so  regularly  was  each  letter  formed,  the  hues  running 
in  exact  parallels  ;  no  fluttei  of  the  heart  causing  the  least 
deviation  from  the  exact  rule.     It  ran  as  Mlows : 


•iage,  tock  a  jour- 

n  to  acknowledge 

bis  refusal  llireal- 

uot  bear  investi- 

3ar  father,  pitying 

Qself  an  interview 

he  begged  your 

to  make  her  his 

and  Mr.  Mooctoo 
tion  and  contempt, 
dared  to  take  such 

,  withering  beneath 

cnmeritcd  neglect, 

n  account,  at  times 

ed  to  England,  she 
breathing  the  most 
th  of  his  son,  whom 
e. 

and  torturing  delay, 
e  me  this  precious 

8ver  of  indignation  ; 


and  feminine  speci- 
,h  worthy  of  Queen 
ted,  the  lines  runnuig 
,rt  causing  the  least 
tUows : 


"  Wliy  do  you  continue  to  trouble  me  with  letters  which  lire  not  wortli 
the  poatuge?  1  hiito  to  roouivc  thuiu,  ami  from  this  liuie  forward  will 
return  them  unopened. 

"  Your  best  policy  is  to  remain  quiet,  or  I  will  disowu  the  connection 

between  us,  nnd  free  myself  from  your  importunity  by  consigning  yon  to 

ft  mad-house. 

"  T M . ' 

"  Unfeeling  scoundrel  !"  I  exclaimed  ;  "  surely  this  affectionate 
billet  must  have  destroyed  the  last  spark  of  affection  in  the 
breast  of  the  unhappy  girl." 

"  Women  are  strange  creatures,  Geoffrey,  and  often  cling 
with  nio.st  pertinacity  to  those  who  care  little  for  their  regard, 
wliile  they  take  a  perverse  pleasure  in  sligiuing  tiiose  who  really 
love  them — so  it  is  witii  Alice.  The  worse  he  treated  her,  the 
more  vehemently  she  clung  to  him.  To  make  a  final  appeal  to 
ills  callous  heart  slie  undertook  the  journey  to  London  alone, 
with  her  LaUy  in  her  arms,  and  succeeded  under  a  feigned  name 
in  getting  admittance  to  her  husband. 

"  You  know  the  result.  ITe  spurned  the  wife  and  child  from 
his  presence.  Tiie  infant  was  taken  sick  on  its  homeward  jour- 
ney, and  died  shortly  after  she  reached  her  grandmother's 
cottage ;  and  she,  poor  creature,  will  soon  follow  it  to  the  grave, 
for  I  am  convinced  that  she  is  dying  of  a  broken  heart." 

Margaret  was  quite  overcome  with  this  sad  relation.  Wiping 
the  tears  from  her  eloquent  black  eyes,  and  looking  me  sadly  in 
the  face,  she  said,  with  great  earnestness  : 

"  And  now,  Geoffrey,  what  can  we  do  to  serve  her  ?" 

"  Inform  Sir  Alexander  of  these  particulars.  Let  him  obtain 
from  Alice  the  legal  proofs  of  her  marriage,  and  force  this  base 
Theophilus — this  disgrace  to  the  name  of  a  man,  and  of  Monc- 
ton,  to  acknowledge  her  publicly  as  his  wife.  In  the  meanwhile, 
I  will  write  to  her  brother,  and  inform  him  of  this  important 
discovery," 


■*» 


oj 


-;^ 


-fi 


■i 


948 


THE     M0NCT0N8. 


"  Tlei  brother  1"  and  Margarotta  turut-d  as  palo  as  :'eoth  ; 
••  ,v;    ':  dr  you  know  ft  Philip  Morningfoi  ?" 

"  Lie  t  .iiy  Iriond  -my  Lk'arv;8t,  most  valued  fricud." 
'        %uk  God  he  is  alive  l" 

■   ai  a  ''kely  to  live,"  said  I,  leading  her  to  a  ch;iir  ;  for  we 
hud  bet.       ending  during  our  long  conversation  in  the  deep 
recess  of  the  library  window.     "  Margaret,  will  you  be  offeuded 
if  I  ask  you  one  question  ?" 
"  Not  in  the  least,  cousin." 

"  And  will  you  answer  me  with  your  usual  candor  ?" 
"  Why  should  you  doubt  it,  Geoffrey  ?"  she  said,  trembling 
with  agitation. 

"  Do  you  love  Thilip  Mornington  ?" 

"  I  do,  Geoffrey— I  have  loved  him  from  a  child,  but  not  in 
the  way  you  mean-not  such  love  as  a  girl  feels  for  her  lover. 
I  could  not  think  of  him  for  one  moment  us  my  husband— no,  it 
is  0  strange  interest  1  feel  in  his  destiny-I  feel  as  if  he  we^e  a 
part  of  me,  as  if  I  had  a  natural  right  to  love  him.  He  is  so 
like  my  father,  only  milder  and  less  impetuous,  that  I  have 
thought  it  possible  that  he  might  be  his  natural  son-and  if  so, 

my  brother." 

What  a  relief  was  this  declaration  to  my  mind.  I  could  not. 
for  a  moment,  doubt  its  sincerity,  and  I  rejoiced  that  the  dear 
tender-hearted  creature  before  me,  was  not  likely  to  wreck  her 
peace  in  loving  one  whom  she  could  not  wed. 

Yet,  that  she  did  love  some  one  I  felt  certain  ;  and  though  I 
dared  'not  prosecute  the  inquiry,  it  was  a  problem  that  I  was 
very  anxious  to  solve. 

I  left  my  fair  cousin,  to  write  a  long  letter  to  George  Harri- 
Bon,  in  which  I  duly  informed  him  of  all  that  had  taken  place 
•ince  I  left  Loudon. 


is  palo  as  :'eoth  ; 

il  frieud." 

;o  a  ch;iir  ;  for  we 
jation  iu  the  deep 
ill  you  be  offended 


candor  ?" 
she  said,  trembling 


a  cbild,  but  not  in 
feels  for  her  lover, 
iny  husband — no,  it 
feel  as  if  he  wetje  a 
love  him.  He  is  so 
(IU0U8,  that  I  have 
ural  son — and  if  so, 

mind.    I  could  not, 

oiced  that  the  dear 

,  likely  to  wreck  her 

i. 

•tain  ;  and  though  I 

problem  that  I  was 

;er  to  George  Harri* 
mt  had  taken  place 


:i 


THE      MONO  TON  3. 


m 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

KY  SECOND    INTERVIEW    WITH    DINAH    NORTH. 

An  hour  had  scarcely  elapsed,  when  I  received  a  message  from 
Miss  Moiicton,  requesting  my  presence  in  the  drawing-room, 
where  I  found  her  engaged  iu  an  earnest  conversation  with  Alice, 
who  looked  more  like  a  resuscitated  corpse,  than  a  living  crea* 
tare  ;  so  pale  and  death-like  were  her  beautiful  features. 

She  held  out  her  hand,  as  I  approached  the  sofa  on  which  she 
was  reclining  ;  and  thanked  me  in  low  and  earnest  tones  for  sav- 
ing her  life.  There  was  an  expression  of  pride,  almost  aristo- 
cratic, on  her  finely  cut  lips,  which  seemed  to  contradict  the 
gratitude  she  expressed. 

"  I  was  not  in  my  right  mind,  Mr.  Geoffrey, — no  one  is,  I 
have  read  and  been  told,  who  makes  an  attempt  upon  his  own 
life.  I  had  suffered  a  great  calamity,  and  wanted  moral  courage 
to  bear  it :  I  trust  God  will  forgive  me." 

I  told  her  that  I  deeply  sympathized  with  her  unfortunate 
situaiion,  and  would  gladly  do  anything  in  my  power  to 
serve  her. 

"That  is  more  than  Theopiiilus  would  do  for  you".  If  there 
is  a  person  whom  he  hates  more  than  me,  it  is  yourself  You 
can  serve  me  very  materially.  Miss  Moncton  tells  me,  that  you 
know  my  brother  Philip,  intimately." 

I  nodded  assent. 

"Write  to  him,  and  tell  him  from  me,  how  sincerely  I 
repent  my  past  conduct  to  him — that  I  am  not  quite  tha  guilty 

11* 


I 


% 


1 


TUB      M  O  N  C  T  O  N  9 . 

creature  he  took  .ne  for  ;  tlu...^!,  swayed  by  min.ls  more 
daringly  wicked  to  conunit  evil.  Toll  hi.n  .,ot  to  avongo  my 
wronK8  on  T:  eopl.ilus.  There  is  o>,e  in  heave,  who  will  bo  my 
AvenK..r-who  never  lets  the  Ihoronshly  bad  i^scape  unpumslu'd  ; 
and  tell  hi-n,"  and  she  drew  a  deep  sigh-"'  that  Alice  Moncton 

died  blessing  him." 

<•  iShall  I  go  to  London,  and  bring  him  down  to  «eo  yon  ? 

»  No,  no  1"  she  cried,  in  evident  alarm,  "  he  nmst  not  be  seen 
in  this  neighborhood." 

..  That  would  be  bringing  the  dead  to  life,"  8a.d  I,  pomte.lly. 

She  gave  me  a  furtive  look. 

.'  Yea  Alice,  Philip  told  me  that  dreadful  story.  I  do  not 
wonder  at  your  repugnance  to  his  coming  here ;  and  were  .t  not 
for  your  share  in  the  business.  I  would  conunit  that  atrocious 
woman  to  take  her  trial  at  the  next  assizes." 

"Horrible  1"  muttered  Alice,  hiding  her  face  m  the  sofa  pd- 
lows.  "  1  did  not  think  that  I'hilip  would  betray  me,  alter  all  i 

did  to  save  his  life." 

"  Your  secret  is  safe  with  mc.  I  would  to  Qod,  that  other 
family  secrets  known  to  you  and  Dinah,  were  in  my  keepn.g. 

"1  wish  they  were,  Mr.  Geoffrey,  for  I  have  too  much  upon 
„.y  conscience,  overburdened  as  it  is  with  the  crimes  of  others^ 
But  I  cannot  tell  you  many  things  in.portant  for  you  to 
know,  for  my  lips  are  sealed  with  au  oath  too  terr.ble  to  be 

'"'-rhen  I  must  go  to  Dinah,"  I  said  angrily.  "  and  wrest  the 

"tlilrbur^'Lto  a  wild  laugh-"  Rack  and  faggot  would  not 
do  it  if  she  were  determined  to  hold  her  tongue-nay,  .he 
would  suffer  that  tongue  to  be  torn  out  of  her  head,  be^re  she 
would  confess  a  crime,  unless,  indeed,  she  were  goaded  on  by 
revenge.  Listen.  Mr.  Geoffrey,  to  the  advice  of  a  dying  woman. 
.'  Leave  Dinah  North  to  God  and  her  own  conscience,     m 


li 
u 

k 

y 


by  inimlN  more 
nt  to  avenge  my 
1  who  will  bo  my 
cape  unpuiiislicd  ; 
at  Alice  Moiietoii 

I  to  see  you  ?" 
must  uot  be  seeu 

said  I,  pointedly. 

story.  I  do  not 
i ;  and  were  it  not 
mit  tliat  atrocious 

ce  in  the  sofa  pil- 
,niy  me,  al'ter  all  1 

to  God,  that  other 
•e  in  my  keeping." 
ve  too  much  upon 
3  crimes  of  others. 
)rtant  for  you  to 
I  too  terrible  to  be 

ily,  "  and  wrest  the 

id  faggot  would  not 
•  tongue — nay,  she 
her  head,  before  she 
Yere  goaded  on  by 
!  of  a  dying  woman. 
fia  conscience.     Be- 


T  11  K 

fore  ninny  months  nre  over,  her  hatrcMl  to  llobrrt  Moncton  nnu 
his  son  will  tear  the  ri'iuctiiut  .si-rrel  from  luT.  Had  my  son 
lived,"  another  heavy  sigii,  "  it  wouhl  have  been  (rifferent.  ll<r 
ambition,  like  my  love,  has  l)eeoine  iIuhI  and  aslies." 

"Alice,"  I  said  solenndy,  "ynn  have  no  right  to  withhold 
knowledge  whidi  involves  tlio  happiness  of  olhera  ;  even  for 
your  oath's  suke." 

"  It  may  be  so,  but  that  oath  involves  an  eternal  penalty 
which  I  dare  not  bring  upon  my  soul." 

"  God  can  absolve  from  all  rash  vows  " 

"  Ay,  those  who  believe  in  Him,  who  love  and  trust  Him.  I 
believe,  simply  because  I  fear.  But  love  and  trust,— alas,  the 
comfort,  the  assurance  which  springs  from  faith,  was  never  felt 

by  me." 

"  Dinah  may  die,  and  the  secret  may  perish  with  her,"  cried 
I,  growing  de.si)erate  to  obtain  information  on  a  subject  of  such 
vital  importance  to  my  friend — perhaps  to  me. 

"  That  is  nothing  to  m;-,"  she  replied,  coldly. 

"  Selfish,  ungenerous  woman  !" 

She  smiled  scornfully.  "The  world,  and  your  family  espe- 
cially, have  given  me  great  encouragement  to  be  liberal." 

"  Is  Philip  your  brother  ?"  I  cried,  vehemently,  determined  to 
storm  the  secret  out  of  her. 

"  What  is  that  to  you  ?  Yet,  perhaps,  if  the  truth  were 
told,  you  would  be  the  lirst  to  wish  it  buried  in  oblivion." 

There  was  a  lurking  fire  in  her  eye  as  she  said  this,  that 
startled  me. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  prosecute  the  inquiry  ?"  she  added,  with  the 
bitter  smile  which  made  her  face,  though  beautiful,  very  repulsive. 

A  glance  of  contempt  was  my  sole  answer. 

"Well,  once  for  all  I  will  tell  you,  Mr.  Geoffrey,  lawyer 
though  you  be,  that  your  cross-questioning  is  useless.  What  I 
know  about  you  and  yours  shall  remain  unkuowu,  as  fur  as  I 


■■■ 


N 


853 


IBB     IIONCTON8, 


«,n  conccrncl-ana  «ball  go  down  with  me  to  the  grave^  The 
„».,„orv  of  ...y  mother  i8  too  dear  to  mo  for  a..y  words  of  yooi- 
10  druK  from  me  the  trust  she  reposed  in  me.  \ou  have  luiU 
vour  answer     Oo-l  wish  to  be  alone." 

■  In  vuin  I  ftr;tued,  entreated,  and  even  threatened.  Ihero  was 
too  much  of  the  leaven  of  Old  Dinah  in  her  granddauKl.ler  s 
character  for  her  to  listen  to  reason. 

She  became  violent  and  obstinate,  and  put  an  end  to  tl.m 
Btranue  conference,  by  rising,  aud  abruptly  leaving  the  room. 
1  looked  after  her  with  feelings  less  tinctured  with  co.npassion 
than  unnovance  and  contempt. 

"  Forgi've  her,  Geoffrey,"  said  Margaret,  who  had  hstened  in 
Bilent  astonishment  to  the  conversation  ;  "  her  reason  .8  dis- 
ordered ;  she  does  not  know  what  she  aays." 

,"  The  madness  of  wickedness,"  I  said,  sharply.     •'  She  is  as 
wide  awake  as  u  fox.     It  may  seem  harsh  to  say  so,  but  1  fee 
little  pity  for  her.     She  is  artful  and  selfish  in  the  extreme,  and 
deserves    her   fate.    Just    review,   for    a    mome.it,    her   past 

life  " 

•'  It  will  not  bear  investigation,  Geoffrey.  Yet,  with  all  these 
faults  I  loved  her  so  fondly-love  her  still,  and  will  never  desert 
ber  while  a  hope  remains,  that  through  my  instrumentahty  l.er 
mind  may  be  diverted  to  the  contemplation  of  better  t lungs. 

"  She  is  not  worthy  of  the  trouble  you  take  about  her,  said 
I,  shrugging  my  shoulders.  "  Have  you  informed  your  father 
of  her  marriage  with  Theophilus  ?" 

"  Yes  and  he  was  astonished.  Theophilas  was  the  last  per- 
son  in  the  world,  he  thought,  who  would  commit  himself  in  that 
way  Papa  said,  that  he  would  write  to  Robert  Moncton,  and 
make  a  statement  of  the  facts.  I  could  almost  pity  him  ;  this 
news  will  throw  him  into  such  a  transport  of  rage. 

"  When  Robert  Moncton  feeh  the  most,  he  says  little.  He 
«jt8  with  silent,  deadly  force.    He  seldom  speaks.    He  wiU 


.. 


\ 


)  tlie  grave.  The 
ly  wonls  of  yomn 
0.     You  Imve  Imtl 

toned.  Tliero  was 
r  gruiiddaiiglilcr'fi 

it  an  end  to  tliia 
leiiviiig  the  room. 
1  with  coinpiiHsiou 

ho  had  listened  in 
iier  reason  is  dis- 

,rply.  "  She  la  as 
»  say  80,  V)ut  1  feel 
n  the  extreme,  and 
uotuent,    her   past 

Yet,  with  all  these 
lid  will  never  desert 
instrumentality  her 
>f  better  things." 
ke  about  her,"  said 
formed  your  father 

18  was  the  last  per- 
imit  himself  in  that 
obert  Moncton,  and 
most  pity  him  ;  this 
f  rage. 

he  says  little.  He 
a  speaks.    He  will 


T  II  R     U  0  N  C  T  0  N  fl  , 


cnrse  Thcophilus  In  his  heart,  but  speak  fair  of  him  to  his  ene. 
mies.     I  am  anxious  to  know  how  all  this  will  end." 

"  My  ftitliur  wanted  to  see  you  in  the  library,"  said  MorgOe 
retta.  "  Your  conversation  with  Alice  put  it  entirely  out  of 
my  head." 

I  found  Sir  Alexander  seated  at  a  table,  surrounded  with 
papers.  If  there  was  one  thing  my  good  old  friend  hated  more 
than  another,  it  was  writing  letters.  "  Wise  men  apeak— fools 
write  their  thoughts,"  wa«  a  favorite  saying  of  his.  He  flung 
the  pen  pettisldy  from  him  as  I  entered  the  room. 

'•  Zounds,  Geoffrey  I  I  cannot  defile  paper  with  writing  to 
that  scoundrel.  I  will  see  him  myself.  It  will  bo  some  satisfac- 
tion to  witness  his  chagrin.  Who  knows,  but  in  the  heat  of  his 
displeasure,  he  may  say  something  that  will  afford  a  clue  to 
unravel  his  treachery  towards  yourself.  At  all  events,  I  am 
determined  to  make  the  experiment." 

"  He  will  make  no  sign.  Robert  Moncton  never  betrays 
himself." 

"  To  think  that  his  clever  Theophilns  could  make  such  a  low 
marriage  ;  not  but  that  the  girl  is  far  too  good  for  him,  and 
I  think  the  degradation  is  entirely  on  her  side." 

"  The  pair  are  worthy  of  each  other,"  said  I. 

"  You  are  unjust  to  Alice,  Geoffrey.  The  girl  was  a  beauty, 
and  80  clever,  till  he  spoilt  her." 

"  The  tiger  is  a  beautiful  animal,  and  the  fox  is  clover  ;  bat 
we  hate  the  one,  despise  the  other." 

The  Baronet  gave  me  a  curious  look. 

"  How  came  you  to  form  this  character  of  the  girl  T"    ' 

"  Partly  froffi  'observation  ;  partly  from  some  previous  know- 
ledge, obtained  t;  >ra  a  reliable  source,  before  I  left  London." 

"  But  what  of  tills  journey,"  I  said,  anxious  to  turn  the  con- 
yersation  "  Do  yon  seriously  contemplate  again  going  np  to 
town  r 


•) 


/^ 


:; 


254 


THE     M0NCT0N8. 


"  It  is  already  decided.    I  have  ordered  the  carriage  to  be  at 
the  door  by  eight  tomorrow  morning." 

"  I  do  not  ask  you  to  accompany  me,  Geoffrey.  I  have  busi- 
nc&s  cnt  out  for  you  during  my  absence.  You  must  start 
to-morrow  for  Derbyshire,  and  visit  the  parish  in  which  your 
grandfather  resided  for  many  years  as  curate,  under  the  Elev. 
James  Brownson  ;  and  wiiere  your  mother  was  born.  I  will 
supply  the  necessary  funds  for  the  journey." 
"  And  the  object  of  this  visit  ?"  I  cr\f d,  'eagerly. 

"  To  take  lodgings  in ,  or  in  the  neighborhood,  and, 

under  a  feigned  name,  prosecute  inquiries  respecting  your 
mother's  marriage.  Tliere  must  still  be  many  persons  living 
to  whom  Ellen  Rivers  and  her  father  were  well-known,  who 
might  give  you  much  valuable  information  respecting  her  elope- 
ment with  your  father,  and  what  was  said  about  it  by  the  gos- 
sips at  the  time.  If  you  find  the  belief  general,  that  they  were 
married,  ascertain  the  church  in  which  the  ceremony  was  said  to 
have  been  performed— the  name  of  the  clergyman  who  offici- 
ated, and  the  witnesses  who  were  present.  All  these  particu- 
lars are  of  the  greatest  importance  for  us  to  know. 

"  Take  the  best  riding-horse  in  the  stable,  and  if  your  money 
fails  you,  draw  upon  me  for  more.  You  may  adopt,  for  the 
time  being,  my  mother's  family  name,  and  call  yourself  Mr. 
Tremain,  to  which  address,  all  letters  from  the  Hall  will  be  sent. 
"  Should  Robert  Monctou  drop  any  hints,  which  can  in  any 
way  further  the  object  of  your  search,  I  will  not  fail  to  write 

you  word. 

"  We  will,  if  you  please,  start  at  the  same  hour  to-morrow  ; 
each  on  our  different  mission  ;  and  may  God  grant  us  success, 
and  a  happy  meeting.  And,  now,  you  may  go  aud  prepare  for 
your  adventure.'' 

I  had  long  wished  fco  prosecute  this  inquiry.  Yet,  uow  the 
moment  had  arrived,  I  felt  loath  to  leave  the  Hall. 


THE     M  O  N  C  T  0  X  9  , 


255 


I  carriage  to  be  ftt 

•ey.  I  have  busi- 
You  must  start 
ish  in  whicli  your 
e,  under  the  Rev. 
ff&a  born.     I  will 

erly. 

leighborhood,  and, 
respecting  your 
my  persons  living 
)  well-known,  who 
ipecting  her  elope- 
lout  it  by  the  gos- 
ral,  that  they  were 
remony  was  said  to 
■gyman  who  offici- 
AU  these  particu- 
snow. 

and  if  your  money 
may  adopt,  for  the 
t  call  yourself  Mr. 
e  Hall  will  be  sent. 
,  which  can  in  any 
ill  not  fail  to  write 

ne  hour  to-morrow ; 
od  grant  us  success, 
go  aud  prepare  for 

uiry.  Yet,  uow  the 
e  Hall. 


The  society  and  presence  of  Margaretta  had  become  neces- 
sary to  my  happiness.  Yet,  inconsistently  enough,  I  fancied 
myself  dcsperutuly  in  love  with  Catharine  Lee.  I  never  Sus- 
pected that  my  passion  for  the  one  was  ideal— the  Erst  love  of 
a  boy  ;  while  that  for  the  latter,  was  real  and  tangible. 

How  we  suffer  youth  and  imagination  to  deceive  us  in 
affairs  of  the  heart.  We  '.ove  a  name,  and  invest  the  person 
who  bears  it  with  a  thousand  perfections,  whicli  have  no  exist- 
ence in  reality.  The  object  of  our  idolatry,  is  not  a  child  of 
nature,  but  a  creation  of  fancy,  fostered  in  solitude  by  ignorance 
and  self-love.  Marriages,  which  are  the  offspring  of  first-love, 
are  proverbially  unhappy  from  this  very  circumstance,  which 
leads  us  to  overrate,  during  the  period  of  courtship,  the  virtues 
of  the  beloved  in  the  most  extravagant  manner  ;  and  this  spe- 
cies of  adoration  generally  ends  in  disappointment — too  often  in 
disgust. 

Boys  and  girls  in  their  teens,  are  beings  without  much  reflec- 
tion. Their  knowledge  of  character,  with  regard  to  themselves 
and  others,  is  too  limited  and  imperfect  to  enable  them  to  make 
a  judicious  choice. 

They  love  the  first  person  who  pleases  the  eye  and  charms  the 
fancy — for  love  is  a  matter  of  necessity  at  that  age. 

Time  divests  their  idol  of  all  its  imaginary  perfections,  and 
they  feel,  too  late,  that  they  have  made  a  wrong  choice. 

Though  love  may  laugh  at  the  cold  maxims  of  prudence  and 
reason,  yet  it  requires  the  full  exercise  of  both  qualities  to  secure 
f)r  any  length  of  time  domestic  happiness. 

I  can  reason  calmly  now,  on  this  exciting  subject.  But  I 
reasoned  not  calmly  then.  I  was  a  creature  of  passion,  and 
passionate  impulses.  The  woman  I  loved  had  no  fault  in  my 
eyes.  To  have  supposed  her  liable  to  the  common  orrors  and 
follies  of  her  sex  would  have  been  an  act  of  treason  against  th» 
deity  1  worshipped. 


i 


rlW    ^ 


256 


THE     MONCTONS, 


I  retired  to  my  chamber,  and  finished  my  letter  to  Harrisoo. 

The  day  wore  slowly  away,  as  it  always  does,  when  you 
expect  any  important  event  on  the  morrow. 

The  eveuiug  was  bright  and  beautiful  as  an  evening  in  June 
could  well  be.  Margaretta  had  only  been  visible  at  dinner,  her 
time  having  been  occupied  between  Alice  and  making  prepara- 
tions for  her  father's  journey. 

At  tea,  she  looked  languid,  and  paler  than  usual,  and  when 
we  rose  from  the  table  1  proposed  a  stroll  in  the  Park.  She 
consented  with  a  smile  of  pleasure,  aud  we  were  soou  wandering 
side  by  side  beneath  our  favorite  trees. 

"  You  will  feel  very  lonely  during  your  father's  absence,  my 

little  cousin  ?" 

"  Then  you  must  exert  all  your  powers  of  pleasing,  Geoffrey, 

to  supply  his  place." 

•'  But  I  am  going  too— I  leave  Moncton  at  the  same  time,  for 

an  indefinite  period." 

"  Worse  and  worse,"  and  she  tried  to  smile.  It  would  not 
do.  The  tears  were  in  her  beautiful  eyes.  That  look  of  tender 
inquiry  caused  a  strange  swelling  at  my  heart. 

"  You  will  not  forget  me,  Margaret  ?" 

"  Do  you  think  it  such  an  easy  matter,  that  you  deem  it 
necessary  to  make  such  a  request." 

"  I  am  but  a  poor  relation,  whom  few  persons  would  regard 
with  other  feelings  than  those  of  indifference.  This  I  know,  is 
not  the  case  with  your  excellent  father  and  you.  I  shall  ever 
regard  both  with  gratitude  and  veneration— and  I  feel  certain, 
that  should  we  never  meet  again,  I  should  always  be  remem- 
bered with  affectionate  kindness." 

'■  You  know  not  how  deservedly  dear  you  are  to  us  both. 
How  much  we  love  you,  Geoffrey— and  I  would  fain  hope  that 
these  sentiments  are  reciprocal." 

Though  this  was  said  in  perfect  simplicity.    The  flushed  cheek. 


THE     UO.VOTONS. 


251 


er  to  Harrison. 
loes,  when   you 

evening  in  June 
le  at  dinner,  her 
making  prepara- 

usaal,  and  when 
the  Park.  She 
I  soon  wandering 

er's  absence,  my 

easing,  Geoffrey, 

he  same  time,  for 

}.  It  would  not 
at  look  of  tender 

hat  you  deem  it 

ms  would  regard 
This  I  know,  is 
fOM.  I  shall  ever 
md  I  feel  certain, 
ilways  be  remem- 

,  are  to  ua  both. 
Id  fain  hope  that 

The  flushed  cheek. 


and  down-cast  eye,  revealed  the  state  of  the  speaker's  heart, 
I  felt — I  knew — she  loved  me.  But,  madman  that  I  was,  out 
of  mere  contradiction,  I  considered  myself  bound  by  a  romantic 
iittaehment,  which  had  never  beeu  declared  by  word  or  sign,  to 
Catherine  Lee. 

*'  You  love  me,  dear  Margaret,"  I  cried,  as  I  clasped  her  hand 
iu  mine,  and  kissed  it  with  more  warmth  than  the  disclosure  I 
was  about  to  make,  warranted. 

"  God  knows  I  how  happy  this  blessed  discovery  would  have 
made  me,  had  not  my  affections  been  pre-engaged." 

A  deep  blush  mantled  over  her  face— she  trembled  violently 
as  she  gently  drew  her  hand  from  mine — and  answered  with  a 
modest  dignity,  which  was  the  offspring  of  purity  and  truth, 

"  I  will  not  deny,  Geoffrey,  that  I  love  you.  That  what  you 
have  said  gives  me  severe  pain.  We  are  not  accountable  for 
our  affections — I  am  sorry  that  I  suffered  my  foolish  heart  to 
betray  me.  Yet,  I  must  love  you  still,  cousin,"  she  said,  weep- 
ing. "  Your  very  misfortunes  endear  you  to  me.  Forget  this 
momentary  weakness,  and  only  think  of  me  as  a  loving  friend 
and  kinswoman." 

Mastering  her  feelings  with  a  strong  effort,  she  bade  me  good 
night,  and  slowly  walked  back  to  the  Hall. 

I  was  overwhelmed  with  confusion  and  remorse.  I  had  won- 
tonly  sported  with  the  affections  of  one  of  the  gentlest  and 
noblest  of  human  beings,  which  a  single  hint,  dropped  as  if 
accidentally,  of  a  previous  passion  might  have  prevented. 

Between  Catherine  and  me,  no  words  of  love  had  been 
exchanged.  She  might  be  the  love  of  another — might  be  a 
wife,  for  anything  I  knew  to  the  contrary.  I  had  neither  seen 
nor  heard  anything  regarding  her  for  some  months.  I  had 
sacrificed  the  peace  and  happiness  of  the  generous,  confiding 
Margaretta,  to  an  idol,  which  might  only  exist  in  my  own  heated 
imagination. 


258 


THE     M  0  X  C  r  0  V  S  . 


Bitterly  I  cursed  ray  folly  when  rcpfiiitaiicc  c«mo  too  late. 

I  was  too  much  vexed  and  annoyed  with  myself  to  return  to 
the  flail,  and  I  rambled  oa  until  I  found  myself  opposite  to  the 
fishing-house. 

The  river  lay  before  me  gleaming  in  the  setting  sun.     Every 
thing  around  was  calm,  peaceful  and  beautiful,  but  there  was  po 
rest,  no  peace  in  my  heart. 

As  I  approached  the  rustic  bridge  from  which  the  wretched 
A-lice  had  attempted  suicide,  I  perceived  a  human  figure  seated 
on  a  stone  on  tfap  bank  of  the  river,  in  a  crouching,  listhsss  atti 
tude.  Tliis  excited  my  curiosity,  and  catching  at  anything  that 
might  divert  my  thoughts  from  the  unpleasant  train  in  which 
they  had  been  running  for  the  last  hour,  I  struck  off  the  path  1 
had  been  pursuing,  which  led  directly  to  the  public  road,  and 
soon  reached  the  object  in  question. 

Wrapped  in  an  old  grey  mantle,  with  a  red  silk  handkerchief 
tied  over  her  head,  her  chin  restiiig  between  her  long  bony 
hands,  and  her  eyes  shut,  or  bent  intently  on  the  ground,  I 
recognized,  with  a  shudder  of  aversion  and  disgust,  the  remarka- 
ble face  of  Dinah  North. 

Her  grizzled  locks  had  partly  eccaped  from  their  bandage, 
and  f(  11  in  thin,  straggling  lines  over  her  low,  wrinkled  forehead. 
The  fire  of  her  deep-seated  dark  eyes  was  hidden  beneath  theii 
drooping  lids,  and  she  was  muttering  to  herself  some  strange, 
unintelligible  gibberish. 

She  did  not  notice  me  until  I  purposely  placed  myself  between 
her  and  the  river  that    rolled   silently   and    swiftly   at    her 

feet. 

Without  manifesting  the  least  surprise  at  the  unceremonious 
manner  in  which  I  had  disturbed  her  reverie,  she  slowly  raised 
her  witch-like  countenance,  and  for  a  few  seconds  surveyed  me 
with  a  sullen  stare. 

As  if  satisfied  with  my  identity,  she  accosted  me  with  the 


same 

interv 

race,  i 
cold  a 
those 
appoi 
no  do 
good, 

frienc 
thus 
your 
"] 
"yoi 
wish 
mon; 
it    t 

enen 

(( 

com 
(I 

whi( 
flesl 
and 
bloc 
stra 

woi 
wel 

the 


^^^^^i^m&f^^mmmm 


M'im.aW'ltwr 


mo  too  late. 
elf  to  return  to 
opposite  to  the 

g  son.     Every 
at  there  was  po 

h  the  wretched 
in  figure  seated 
ug,  listltiss  atti 
,t  anything  that 
train  in  which 
i  off  the  path  1 
lublic  road,  and 

Ik  handkerchief 

her  long  bony 

1  the  ground,  I 

St,  the  remarka- 

their  bandage, 
iiikled  forehead, 
n  beneath  theii 
f  some  strange, 

I  myself  between 
swiftly   at    her 

e  uucereraoiuons 
;he  slowly  raised 
ads  surveyed  me 

ed  me  with  the 


THE    MONOTONa. 


259 


same  sarcastic  writhing  of  the  upper  lip,  which  on  our  first 
interview  had  given  me  the  key  to  her  character. 

..  Yol  too,  are  a  Moncton,  and  like  the  rest  of  that  accursed 
race,  are  fair  and  false.  Your  dark  eyes  all  fire-your  heart  as 
cold  as  ice.  Proud  as  Lncifer-inexorable  as  the  grave-woe  to 
those  who  put  any  trust  in  a  Moncton  ;  they  are  certain  of  d.^ 
appointment-sure  to  be  betrayed.  Pass  by,  young  mr  I  have 
no  doubt  that  you  are  like  the  rest  of  your  kin.  1  wish  them  no 
good,  but  evil,  so  you  had  better  not  cross  my  path 

.'  Your  hatred,  Mrs.  North,  is  more  to  be  coveted  than  your 
friendship.  To  incur  the  first,  augurs  some  good  in  the  person 
thus  honored  ;  to  posses,  the  Inst,  would  render  us  worthy  of 

Your  curse"  , .       .      .    ii„ 

"Ha  hal"  returned  the  grim  fiend,  langhmg  iromcally. 
"  vour  knowledge  of  the  world  has  given  you  a  bitter  spino.  I 
wish  you  joy  of  the  acquisition.  Time  wilt  increase  its  acri- 
monv  But  I  like  your  bluntness  of  speech,  and  prophesy  from 
it    that  you  are  born  to  overcome  the    malignity  of   your 

""^Tnd  you,"  and  I  fixed  my  eyes  steadily  on  her  hideous 
countenance,  "for  what  end  were  you  born?" 

"To  be  the  curse  of  other?,"  she  answered,  with  a  grim  smile, 
which  displayed  those  glittering  white  teeth  within  her  faded,, 
fleshless  lips,  that  looked  like  a  row  of  pearls  in  a  Death  s  head  ; 
and  there  fiashed  from  her  swart  eye  a  red  light  which  made  the 
blood  curdle  in  my  veins,  as  she  continued  in  the  same  taunting 

strain.  ,  ,.         T  u„»« 

"  I  have  been  of  use,  too,  in  ray  day  and  generation.     I  have 

won  many  souls,  but  not  for  heaven.     I  havo  served  my  master 

well  and  shall  doubtless  receive  my  reward." 

"This  is  madness,  Dinah  North,  but  without  excuse.     It  is 

the  madness  of  guilt." 

"It  is  a  quality  I  possess  in  common  with  my  kind,     lb* 


A 


•MWW 


260 


THK     MONCTONg. 


~r 


world  is  made  np  of  madmen  and  fools.  It  is  better  to  belong 
to  the  first  tlian  to  the  latter  class— to  rule,  than  to  be  ruled. 
Between  those  two  parties  the  whole  earth  is  divided.  Know- 
ledge is  power,  whetlior  it  be  the  knowledge  of  evil  or  of  good. 
I  heard  that  sentence  when  a  girl  ;  it  never  left  my  mind,  and  I 
have  acted  upon  it  through  life." 

"  It  must  have  been  upon  the  knowledge  of  evil— as  your 
deeds  can  too  well  testify." 

"  Yon,  have  guessed  right,  young  sir.  By  it,  the  devil  lost 
heaven,  but  he  gained  hell.  By  it,  tyrants  rule,  and  mean  men 
become  rich  ;  virtue  is  overcome,  and  vice  triumphs." 

"  And  what  have  you  gained  by  it  ?" 

"  Much  ;  it  has  given  me  an  influence  in  the  world,  which 
without  it,  never  could  have  belonged  to  one  of  my  degree.  By 
it,  I  have  swayed  the  destinies  of  thosA  wliom  fortune  had 
apparently  placed  beyond  my  reach.  It  has  given  me,  Geoffrey 
Moncton,  power  over  thee  and  thine,  and  at  this  very  moment, 
the  key  of  your  future  fortune  is  in  my  keeping." 

"  ind  y  >ur  life  in  mine,  vain  boaster.  The  hour  is  at  hand 
which  shall  make  even  a  hardened  sinner  like  you  acknowledge 
that  there  i  5  a  righteous  God  that  judges  in  the  earth. 

"  I  ask  you  not  for  the  secret  which  you  say  that  you  possess, 
and  which,  after  all,  may  be  a  falsehood,  in  unison  with  the 
deceit  and  treachery  that  has  marked  your  whole  life— a  lie, 
invented  to  extort  money,  or  to  gratify  the  spite  of  your  malig- 
nau(  heart.  The  power  that  punishes  the  guilty  and  watclies 
over  the  innocent,  will  vindicate  the  good  name  of  which  ». 
wretch  like  you  would  fain  deprive  me." 

"  Don't  be  too  sure  of  celestial  aid,"  she  said  with  a  sneer, 
"  bat  make  to  yourself  firiends  of  the  mammon  of  unrighteons- 
ness,  as  the  wisest  policy.  Flatter  from  your  Uncle  Robert  the 
ill-gotten  wealth  that  his  dastardly  sou,  Theophilus,  shall  neT« 


her 
tha 
goc 

per 

Sh( 
< 

has 

sho 
whi 

"w 

< 

ehr 

she 
* 

fidt 
of 
sec 
mai 

1 
bet 
siv( 
wh 
she 

ter: 


At 
cnr 


1 


is  better  to  belong 
,  than  to  be  ruled. 
is  divided.  Kiiow- 
of  evil  or  of  good, 
left  ray  mind,  and  I 

re  of  evil — as  your 

»y  it,  the  devil  lost 
rule,  and  mean  men 
iuraphs." 

1  the  world,  which 
of  my  degree.  By 
wlioin  fortune  had 
given  me,  Geofifrey 
t  this  very  moment, 

ng." 

[le  hour  is  at  hand 

£0  you  acknowledge 

the  earth. 

ly  that  you  possess, 

in  unison  with  the 

whole  life — a  lie, 
ipite  of  your  malig- 
guilty  and  watclies 

name  of  which  a 

said  with  a  sneer, 
non  of  unrighteons- 
r  Uncle  Robert  the 
ophilas,  shall  neret 


TH  r. 


0  N  0  T  0  N  S, 


26i 


'  Tills  advice  comes  well  from  tbu  sordid  woman  who  sold 
her  innocent  gnuulchild  to  tiiis  same  Theophiius,  in  tlie  hope 
that  slie  raigiit  enjoy  the  rank  and  fortune  that  belonged  to  the 
good  and  noble,  and  by  this  unholy  act,  sacrificed  tiie  peace — 
perhaps  the  eternal  licippinesa  of  that  most  wretched  creature." 

The  countenance  of  tlic  old  woman  grew  dark — dark  as  night. 
She  fi.xed  upon  me  a  wild,  inquiring  gaze. 

"  You  speak  of  Alice.  In  tlie  name  of  God,  tell  me  what 
has  become  of  her  I" 

"  Upon  one  condition,"  I  said,  laying  ray  hand  npon  her 
shoulder  and  whispering  the  words  into  her  ear.  "Tell  mo 
what  has  become  of  Philip  Mornington." 

"  Ha  !"  said  the  old  woman,  trying  to  shake  off  my  grasp — 
"  what  do  you  know  of  him  ?" 

"  Enough  to  hang  you — something  that  the  grave  in  the  dark 
shrubbery  can  reveal." 

"  Has  she  told  you  that.  The  fool — the  idiot ;  in  so  doing 
she  betrayed  herself." 

"She  told  me  notliing.  The  eye  that  witnessed  the  deed  con- 
fided to  me  that  secret.  The  earth  will  not  conceal  the  stain 
of  blood.  Did  you  never  hear  that  fact  before  ?  Is  not  my 
secret  as  good  as  yours,  Dinah  North?  Are  you  willing  to 
make  an  exchange  ?" 

The  old  woman  crouched  herself  together,  and  buried  her  face 
between  her  iciiees.  Her  hands  opened  and  shut  with  a  convul- 
sive motion,  as  if  they  retained  something  in  their  grasp  with 
which  she  was  unwilling  to  part.  At  length,  raibing  her  head, 
she  said  in  a  decided  manner  : 

"  The  law  has  lost  in  you  a  worthy  member  ;  but  I  accept  the 
terms.     Come  to  me  to-morrow  at  nine  o'clock." 

"To-night,  or  never  I" 

"  Don't  try  to  force  or  bnlly  me  into  compliance,  young  man. 
At  my  own  time,  and  in  my  own  way,  alone,  will  I  gratify  your 
curiosity." 


THE     MONCTONB. 

Well,  be  It  .o-lo-morrow.    I  -.111  m.el  you  .t  the  Mg. 

"sirirZ'^l  «a.  •,  regarded  „e  with  the  .erne  wither. 
,„g  SlaZ  .,.d  eattiug  .mile,  ."d  gliding  P-t  me,  .an,»hed 

'"ZulrgT.,  .«..,  .  .xcl.im.d-"Tb.»k  «od  I  « 
know  all  to-morrow  1" 


I  WA 

Dinah 

my  swe 

the  coil 

"W 

tone  at 

to  a  sti 

"Sh 

I  forge 

These 

look  al 

ing  tifl 

come  1 

I  Bi| 

lieurty 

"li 

it,  boj 

only  n 

Ay,  a 

great 

lover. 

journ( 

ing  wi 

Ik 

my  cc 


I  k. 


ffBi:     UOltCTONS 


2(13 


on  at  the  Lodge 

the  same  wither- 
Lst  me,  vanished 

luk  God  I  shall 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

AK    rXPLANATION — DEPARTURE — DISAPPOINTMENT. 

I  WAS  80  elated  with  the  unexpected  result  of  my  meeting  with 
Dinah  North,  that  it  was  not  until  I  missed  the  fairy  figure  of 
my  sweat  cousin  at  the  supper  table,  tliat  my  mind  reverted  to 
the  conversation  that  had  passed  between  us  in  the  park. 

"  Where  is  Miss  Moncton  ?"  I  asked  of  Sir  Alexander,  in  u 
tone  and  manner  which  would  have  betrayed  the  agiti  .lou  I  felt, 
to  a  stranger. 

"  She  is  not  well,  Geoffrey,  has  a  bad  headache,  or  is  nervous, 
I  forget  which,  and  begged  to  be  excused  joiuing  us  to-night. 
These  little  female  complaints  are  never  dangerous,  so  don't 
look  alarmed.  My  girl  is  no  philosopher,  and  this  double  part- 
ing affects  her  spirits.  She  will  be  all  right  again  when  you 
come  back." 

I  sighed  involuntarily.  The  provoking  old  man  burst  into  a 
hearty  laugh. 

"  I  am  likely  to  have  a  dull  companion  to-night,  Geoff.  Hang 
it,  boy,  don't  look  so  dismal.  Do  you  think  that  you  are  the 
only  man  that  ever  was  in  love?  1  was  a  young  roan  once. 
Ay,  and  a  fine  young  man  too,  or  the  world  and  the  ladies  told 
great  stories,  but  I  never  could  enact  the  part  of  a  sentimental 
lover.  Fill  your  glass  and  drive  away  care.  Success  to  your 
journey.  Our  journeys,  I  might  have  said— and  a  happy  meet- 
ing  with  little  Madge." 

I  longed  to  tell  Sir  Alexander  the  truth,  and  repeat  to  him 
my  conversation  with  his  daughter.     But  I  could  not  bear  to 


201 


THB     MONCTOm. 


II' 1-' 


luortify  hlB  pride,  for  I  could  not  fail  to  percoire  that  ho  con- 
templated a  union  between  us  with  pleasure,  and  was  doing  his 
best  to  encourage  me  to  make  a  declaration  of  my  attachment 

to  Margaret.  . 

I  was  placed  in  a  most  unfortunate  predicament,  and  in  order 
to  drown  my  own  miserable  feelings,  I  drank  more  wine  than 
usual,  and  gaining  an  artificial  flow  of  spirits,  amused  my  gen- 
erous patron  with  a  number  of  facetious  stories  and  anecdotes, 
until  the  night  was  far  advanced,  and  we  both  retired  to  rest. 

My  brain  waa  too  much  heated  with  the  wine  I  had  drank,  to 
sleep,  and  after  making  several  ineffectual  efforts,  I  rose  from 
my  bed— relighted  ray  caudle,  and  dressing  myself,  sat  down  to 
my  desk,  and  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Murgaretta,  in  which  I 
informed  her  of  my  first  meeting  with  Catherine  Lee  ;  the  i_cer- 
est  which  her  beauty  had  created  in  my  heart-the  romantic 
attachment  I  had  formed  for  her,  and  which,  hopeless  as  it  was 
I  could  not  wholly  overcome.  I  assured  Margaretta,  that  I  felt 
for  herself,  the  greatest  affection  aud  esteem— that  but  for 
the  remembrance  of  this  first  passion,  the  idea  that  she  loved 
me  would  have  made  me  the  happiest  of  men.  That  if  she 
would  accept  the  heart  I  had  to  offer,  divided  as  I  felt  it  was 
with  another,  and  my  legitimacy  could  be  established,  my  whole 
life  should  be  devoted  to  her  alone. 

I  ended  this  long  candid  confession,  by  relating  verbatim  my 
interview  with  Dinah  North,  and  begged  if  possible,  that  I 
might  exchange  a  few  words  with  her  before  leaving  the  Hall. 

I  felt  greatly  relieved  by  thus  unburdening  my  mind.  I  had 
told  the  honest  truth,  without  fear,  and  without  disguise  ;  and 
I  knew  that  she,  who  was  the  mirror  of  truth,  would  value  my 

sincerity  as  it  deserved. 

The  sun  was  scarcely  up  when  I  dispatched  my  letter,  and 
v-^-ire  th«  early  breakfast,  that  had  been  ordered  previous  to 
our  departure,  was  ready,  I  received  the  following  answer- 


"My  Di 

I  cannot  in 
and  tbougl 
bavc  coiitid 
to  b«,  flrm 

"  To  JO 
aflcotloDH,  I 
upon  one  » 

■'  Let  iia 
ri'gretM  in 
with  Bincer 
now  and  ei 


"  Wha 
letter  to  i 

Yet  I 
all— that 
painful  d 
brilliancy 

With 
my  dear 
although 
expressio 

"Why 
pale  che{ 
early  risii 

"Of  1 
employ  a 

Severa 
which  pr< 
The  ban 
noble  ho 
soon  lost 


i?o  that  he  con- 
nd  was  doing  his 
if  my  attachment 

icnt,  and  in  order 
more  wine  than 
amnsed  my  gen- 
i9  and  anecdotes, 
retired  to  rest, 
e  I  had  drank,  to 
Bforls,  I  rose  from 
iTself,  sat  down  to 
retta,  in  which  I 
le  Lee  ;  the  i'_  cer- 
irt — the  romantic 
tiopeless  as  it  was, 
raretta,  that  I  felt 
jm — that  but  for 
ea  that  she  loved 
nen.     That  if  she 
led  as  I  felt  it  was 
iblished,  my  whole 

ating  verbatim  my 
f  possible,  that  I 
eaving  the  Hall. 
r  my  mind.  I  had 
lout  disguise  ;  and 
[h,  would  value  my 

ihed  my  letter,  and 
trdered  previous  to 
)wing  answer— 


THE     H0NCT0N8. 


S66 


"  My  Dear  CoimiN  OEOKmBT  : 

Your  Invaluable  letter  hw  greatly  raised  you  in  my  eitecm ; 
I  cannot  inffloiently  admire  the  ooniicleiitioiiH  ncruplea  which  dictated  it— 
and  though  we  cannot  meet  aa  lovera,  after  Uio  candid  revelation  you 
have  coiitided  to  mo,  wc  may  itill  remain,  what  all  near  relatives  ought 
to  be,  flrm  tad  faithful  friimdb. 

"  To  you  I  can  attach  no  blame  whatever,  and  1  f'?el  proud  that  my 
aOcotionH,  though  Axed  upon  an  object  beyond  thi/ir  reach,  were  bestowed 
upon  one  so  every  way  worthy  of  them. 

■'Let  lis  therefore  forget  our  private  sorrows,  and  drown  unavailing 
regretM  in  doing  all  we  can  to  serve  Thilip  and  his  sister.  Farewell — 
with  sincere  prayers  for  the  suocossful  issue  of  your  journey,  believe  me, 
now  and  ever,  your  faithful  and  loving  friend, 

Haroarbtta." 

"What  a  noble  creature  she  is,"  I  said,  as  I  pressed  the 
letter  to  my  lips ;  "  I  am  indeed  unworthy  of  such  a  treasure.' 

Yet  I  felt  happy  at  that  moment — happy,  that  she  knew 
all— that  I  had  not  deceived  her,  but  had  performed  an  act  of 
painful  duty,  though  by  so  doing  I  had  perhaps  destroyed  the 
brilliancy  of  my  future  prospects  in  life. 

With  mingled  feelings  of  gratitude  and  pleasure  I  met 
my  dear  cousin  at  the  breakfast  table.  Her  countenance, 
although  paler  than  nsual,  wore  a  tranquil,  and  even  cheerful 
expression. 

"  Why,  Madge,  ray  darling,"  cried  the  baronet,  kissing  her 
pale  cheek,  "  yon  are  determined  to  see  the  last  of  ns — is  yonr 
early  rising  in  honor  of  Geoffrey  or  me  ?" 

"  Of  both,"  she  said,  with  her  sweetest  smile.  "  I  never 
employ  a  proxy  to  bid  farewell  to  my  friends." 

Several  efforts  were  made  at  conversation  during  the  meal, 
which  proved  eminently  unsnccessful.  The  hour  of  parting  came. 
The  baronet  was  safely  stowed  away  into  his  carriage  ;  the 
noble  horses  plunged  forward,  and  the  glittering  equipage  was 
soon  lost  among  the  trees.     I  lingered  a  moment  behind. 

12 


i*  i'eJMni«»p-*i«I'iWiB«WTr»»^ 


8«« 


UK      M  O  S  0  T  0  N  «  . 


"  Dear  Mart,'nrct,  wo  part  friends." 

"  The  \mt  of  friemU." 

"(io.l  hkm  yon,  deurest  and  nohlest  of  women,  I  «a^ 
fttlntly;  for  my  lips  quivered  with  emotion;  1  could  scarcely  arti- 
..ulate  a  word;  "  you  have  ren.oved  a  loa.l  of  unx.ety  from  my 
heart.  To  have  lost  your  friendship  would  have  been  a  severer 
trial  to  me,  than  the  Urns  of  name  or  fortune." 

"  I  believe  you.  Geoffrey.   But  never  «llmle  aj,'am  to  tW  pain 
ful  .uhject,  if  you  value  my  health  and  peace.     We  understand 
each  other.     If  Ood  wills  it  so,  we  may  both  be  happy,  though 
the  attainment  of  it  may  not  exactly  coincide  with  our  presen 
wishes.    Adieu,  dear  cousin.   You  have  my  heart-felt  prayers  for 

your  success."  , 

She  raised  her  tearful  eye.  to  mine.  The  next  '««>"'«"«'« 
was  in  my  arms,  pressed  closely  against  my  breast-a  st  fl  d 
Bob-one  kiss-one  long  lingering  embraco-a  heavy  melancholy 
deep-drawn  sigh,  and  she  was  gone.  ,,        i .. 

I  mounted  my  horse  and  rode  quickly  forward  ;  my  though U 
BO  occupied  with  Margaretta  and  that  sad  parting,  that  I  nearly 
Lrrot  Jhe  promised  interview  with  Dinah  North,  untd  my  prox- 
imilv  to  the  lodge  brought  it  vividly  to  my  remembrance. 
'"iCelg  my'horse  I  the  rustic  railing  that  f-"ted  t  -0, 
tage,  I  crossed  the  pretty  little  flower  garden,  and  knock  d 
raJhir  unpatiently  at  the  door.  My  summons,  though  given 
in  loud  and  authoritative  tones,  remained  unanswered. 

Again  and  again  I  applied  my  hand  to  the  rusty  .ron  knocker 
it  awoke  no  response  from  the  tenant  of  the  house.  She  must 
L  dead  0.  out  I  .aid,  losing  all  patience;  "  I  w.U  stay  h^ 
Z  longer,"  and  lifting  the  latch.  1  very  unceremoniously  enter  d 
thecottaie  All  was  silent  within.  The  embers  on  the  hearth 
wer  dead  au<l  the  culinary  vessels  were  scatered  over  the  floor 
The  white  muslin  curtains  which  shaded  the  rose-bound  w.ndows 
w   e  uudrawa.   The  door  which  led  into  the  bed-room  was  open. 


1   , 


jf  women,"  I  m\\ 

(;o\il(l  Hciireely  artl- 

jf  uiixiety  from  my 

huvc  bueii  a  severer 

3." 

e  nj^ftin  to  this  pain- 
ce.  Wc  underrtUuid 
th  be  happy,  though 
ide  with  our  present 
heiirt-felt  prayers  for 

le  next  moment  she 
ooy  breast— a  stifled 
-a  heavy  mclaucholy 

irward  ;  my  thoughts 
parthig,  that  I  nearly 
S'orth,  until  my  prox- 
renjembranee. 

that  fronted  the  cot- 
garden,  and  knocked 
ramona,  thongh  given 
unanswered, 
he  rusty  iron  knocker, 
he  house.  She  must 
ice;  "I  will  stay  here 
[Ceremoniously  entered 

embers  on  the  hearth 
icatered  over  the  floor 
le  rose-bound  windows 
he  bed-room  was  open, 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-S) 


1.0 


2.5 


I.I 


l^|2.8 

■JO     '■^" 

I4£    IIIIIM 


1.8 


us 


1.25   111.4   III 

1.6 

* 

^ 

6"     

► 

fliotographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14380 

(716)  872-4503 


Z. 
% 

f 


^ 


«' 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICIVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


m 


THE    M0NCT0N3, 


267 


the  bed  made  and  the  room  untenanted.     It  was  evident  that 
the  old  womiiu  was  not  there.    I  called  aloud  : 

"  Dinah,  Dinah  North  1     Is  any  one  within  ?" 

No  au.swer. 

I  proceeded  to  explore  the  rest  of  the  dwelling.  In  the  front 
room  or  parlor,  the  contents  of  a  small  chest  of  drawers  had  been 
emptied  out  on  the  floor,  and  some  few  artides  of  little  value  were 
strewn  about.  In  was  an  evident  fact,  that  the  bird  was  flown; 
and  all  my  liigh-raised  expectations  resolved  themselves  into  air. 

Whilst  cursing  the  crafty  old  woman  bitterly  in  my  heart,  my 
eye  glanced  upon  a  slip  of  paper  lying  upon  a  side  table.  I 
hastily  snatched  it  up  and  read  the  following  words  traced  in  a 
bold  hand  : 

"  Geoffrey  Moncton,  when  next  we  meet,  your  secret  and  mine  will  be 
of  equal  value.  "  Dinah  North." 

I  was  bitterly  disappointed,  and  crushing  the  paper  in  my 
hand,  I  flung  it  as  far  from  me  as  I  could. 

"  Curse  the  old  fiend.  We  shall  yet  meet.  I  will  trace  her 
to  the  utmost  bounds  of  earth  to  bring  her  to  justice." 

I  left  the  house  in  a  terrible  ill  humor,  and  re-mounting  my 
horse,  pursued  my  journey  to  Derbyshire. 

It  was  late  on  the  evening  of  the  second  day,  when  I  reached 
the  little  village,  over  which  my  grandfather  Rivers  had  exer- 
cised the  pastoral  office  for  nearly  fifty  years.  The  good  man 
had  been  gathered  to  his  fathers  a  few  months  before  I  was 
born.  It  was  not  without  feeling  a  considerable  degree  of  inter- 
est that  I  rode  past  the  humble  church,  surrounded  by  its  lofty 
screen  of  elms,  and  glanced  at  the  green  sward,  beneath  whose 
daisy-sprinkled  carpet,  the 

Rude  forefathers  of  the  village  slept." 
The  rain  had  fallen  softly  but  perseveringly  the  whole  day, 


268 


THE    HONCTUNS. 


nnd  I  was  wet,  hungry,  and  tired — and  the  neat  little  inn,  with 
its  gay  sij»u-board,  white-washed  walls  and  green  window-blinds, 
was  hailed  as  the  most  welcome  and  picturesque  object  which 
bad  met  my  sight  for  the  last  three  hours. 

"  Stay  all  night,  sir  ?"  said  the  brisk  lad,  from  whose  helmet- 
like leathern  cap  the  water  trickled  in  the  most  obtrusively 
impertinent  manner  over  his  rosy,  freckled  face,  as  he  ran 
forward  to  hold  my  horse.  "  Good  accommodation  for  man 
and  beast — capital  beds,  sir." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  I  replied,  somewhat  impatiently,  as  I  threw  him 
the  reins  and  entered  the  brick  passage  of  the  Inn.  "  Where 
is  the  master  of  the  house  ?" 

"No  master,  sir,"  returned  the  ofiBcioas  lad,  following  me. 
"  The  master  be  a  missus,  sir.     Here  she  come." 

"  What's  your  pleasure  V  said  a  very  pretty  woman,  about 
thirty  years  of  age,  advancing  from  an  inner-room.  She  was 
dressed  in  widow's  weeds,  which  became  her  very  fair  face  amaz- 
ingly, and  led  by  the  hand  a  rosy,  curly-headed  urchin,  whose 
claims  to  general  admiiation  were  by  no  means  contemptible. 
The  mother  and  her  lovely  boy  would  have  made  a  charming 
picture  ;  and  I  forgot,  while  contemplating  the  originals,  thau  i 
was  wet  and  hungry. 

With  the  quickness  of  her  sex,  Mrs.  Archer  perceived  that 
she  had  made  a  favorable  impression  on  her  new  guest.  And 
putting  back  the  luxuriant  curls  from  the  white  brow  of  her 
boy,  she  remarked,  with  a  sigh  : 

"  He's  young  to  be  an  orphan — ^poor  child  I" 

"He  is,  indeed,"  I  repliedi ,  kissing  the  little  fellow,  as  I 
spoke  ;  "  and  his  mother  far  too  young  and  pretty  to  remaia 
long  a  widow." 

"  La,  sir ;  yon  don't  say  so,"  said  Mrs.  Archer,  smiling  and 
blushing  most  becomingly.  "  And  yon  standing  all  this  while 
in  the  drafty,  cold  passage  in  your  wet  clothes.  You  can  haw 
a  private  i  oom  and  a  fire,  sir." 


n 
tl 

C( 

th 

ti< 
be 

mi 

we 

tet 

alt 

r 

das 
inq 
by 

4 

ent( 

I 

four 

com 

wea 

suit 

side 

thou 

T 

ticia 

and 


neat  little  inn,  with 
reeii  window-blinds, 
resque  object  which 

from  whose  helmet- 
le  most  obtrusively 
id  face,  as  he  ran 
amodatiou  for  man 

itly,  as  I  threw  him 
the  Inn.     "  Where 

lad,  following  me. 
ne." 

:ett7  woman,  about 
ler-room.  She  was 
very  fair  face  amaz- 
aded  urchin,  whose 
neans  contemptible. 
e  made  a  charmini^ 
the  originals,  tha  u  i 

cher  perceived  that 

)t  new  guest.    And 

white  brow  of  her 


little  fellow,  as  I 
id  pretty  to  remain 

Archer,  smiling  and 
nding  all  this  while 
hes.    You  can  hav* 


^THK     MON0TON8.  gQQ 

'•And  a  good  supper,  I  hope,"  said  I  laughing.  "I  have 
ridden  fifty  miles  to-day,  and  I  feel  desperately  hungry." 

"  You  shall  have  the  best  the  house  affords.  Pray  walk 
this  way." 

I  followed  my  conductress  into  a  neat  little  room      A  fat 
country  girl  was  on  her  knees  before  the  grate  striving  to  kindle 
the  fire  ;  bnt  the  wood  was  wet,  and  in  spite  of  the  girl's  exer- 
tions, who  was  supplying  with  her  mouth  the  want  of  a  pair  of 
bellows,  the  fire  refused  to  barn. 

"It's  of  no  manner  of  use— no  it  isn't,"  said  the  girl     "I 
may  blow  till  I  bust,  an'  it  won't  kindle." 

"  Try  again,  Betty,"  said  her  mistress,  encouragingly     "  You 
were  always  a  first-rate  hand  at  raising  the  fire." 

"  But  the  wood  warn't  wet,"  returned  the  fat  girl,  discon- 
tentedly.     "  I  can't  make  it  burn  when  it  won't." 

And  getting  up  from  her  fat  knees  she  retreated,  scowling 
alternately  at  me  and  the  refractory  fire. 

The  room  looked  cold  and  comfortless.  The  heavy  rain 
dashed  drearily  against  the  narrow  window  panes  ;  and  I 
inqnired  if  I  could  not  dfy  my  wet  clothes  and  eat  m'y  supper 
by  the  kitchen  fire. 

"  Oh,  yes.  If  such  a  gentleman  as  you  will  condescend  to 
enter  my  humble  kitchen,"  was  the  reply. 

I  did  condescend— heaven  only  knows  how  gladly— and  soon 
found  myself  comfortably  seated  before  an  excellent  fire,  in 
company  with  a  stout,  red-faced,  jolly  old  farmer,  and  a  thin, 
weazel-faced,  undersized  individual,  dressed  in  a  threadbare 
suit  of  pepper  and  salt,  who  kept  his  hat  on,  and  wore  it  on  one 
side  with  a  knowing  swagger,  talked  big,  and  gave  himself  a 
thousand  consequential  airs. 

This  person  I  discovered  to  be  the  barber  and  great  poli- 
tician of  the  village.  Who  talked  continually  of  King  Georga 
and  the  royal  family  ;  of  the  king's  ministers  ;  the  war  in 


IP" 


870 


THE     MO.VCTONS. 


Roosliia,  the  burning  of  Moscow,  and  the  destruction  of  tha*. 
monster  Bpnyparty. 

The  farmer,  who  was  no  scliolar,  and  looked  npon  him  of  the 
strop  and  razor  as  a  perfect  oracle,  was  treating  iiim  to  a  pot 
of  ale,  for  the  sake  of  the  news.  The  barber  paying  twopence 
a  week  for  the  sight  of  a  second-hand  newspaper. 

Mrs.  Archer  went  softly  np  to  the  maker  of  perukes,  and 
whispered  something  in  his  ear.  He  answered  with  a  knowing 
nod,  and  without  moving,  stared  me  full  in  thie  face. 

"  Not  an  inch  will  I  budge,  Mrs.  Archer.  One  man's  money 
is  as  good  as  another  man's  money.  No  offence  to  the  gemmen, 
'  A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that.'  That's  what  I  call  real  inde- 
pendence, neighbor  Bullock." 

And  his  long,  lean  fingers  descended  npon  the  fat  knee  of  the 
farmer  with  a  whack  that  rang  through  the  kitchen. 

"  Deuce  take  you.  Sheldrake.  I  wish  you'd  just  show  it  in 
some  other  way,"  said  the  farmer,  rubbing  his  knee.  "  Why, 
man,  your  fingers  are  as  long  and  as  lean  as  a  crow's  claws,  and 
as  hard  as  your  own  block,  and  sting  like  whip-cord.  One 
would  think  that  you  had  dabbled  long  enough  in  oil  and 
pomatum,  and  such  like  messes,  to  make  them  as  white  as  a 
lady's  hand,  and  as  soft  as  your  own  head." 

"  They  have  been  made  tough  by  handling  such  hard  num- 
skulls as  yours,  neighbor  Bullock.  That  chin  of  yours,  with  its 
three  days'  growth  of  bristles,  would  be  a  fortune  to  a  brick- 
layer, whilst  it  spoils  my  best  razors,  and  never  puts  a  penny 
into  the  pocket  of  the  poor  operator." 

"Operator,^'  repeated  the  farmer,  with  a  broad,  quizzical  grin, 
"  is  that  yonr  new-fangled  name  for  a  shaver  ?  It's  a  pity  you 
didn't  put  it  on  the  board  with  the  farago  of  nonsense,  by  which 
you  hope  to  attract  the  attention  of  all  the  fool  bodies  in  the 
town." 

"  Don't  speak  disrespectfully  of  my  sign,  sir,"  quoth  the  little 


m 
hi 
d( 


P', 

nn 
ful 
ch 

na 

601 

inp 

do( 

far 

thf 

refi 

Ihp 
t 

stn 
the 


struction  of  tha*. 

i  upon  him  of  the 
iiig;  liim  to  a  pot 

paying  twopence 
er. 

of  pern  Ives,  and 
I  with  a  knowing 
!  face. 

One  man's  money 
e  to  the  genimen, 
I  call  real  inde- 

te  fat  knee  of  the 
chen. 

i  jnst  show  It  in 
)  knee.  "  Why, 
;row's  claws,  and 
whip-cord.  One 
)ngh  in  oil  and 
n  as  white  as  a 

such  hard  num- 
)f  yours,  with  its 
tune  to  a  brick- 
er  puts  a  penny 

id,  quizzical  grin, 

It's  a  pity  you 

nsense,  by  which 

)ol  bodies  in  the 

'  quoth  the  little 


THE     MONCTONS, 


an 


barber,  waxing  wroth.  "  My  sign  is  an  excellent  sign— the 
admiration  of  the  whole  village  ;  and  let  me  tell  you  that  it  is 
not  in  npite  and  envy  to  put  it  down— let  spite  and  envy  try  as 
hard  as  they  can.  The  genius  that  suggested  that  sign  is  not 
destined  to  go  unrewarded." 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  I"  roared  the  chewer  of  bacon. 
"Mrs.  Archer,"  said  the  offended  shaver,  turning  to  the 
pretty  widow  with  an  air  of  wounded  dignity  truly  comic,  "  did 
you  ever  before  hear  a  Bullock  laugh  like  a  hog?" 

"Dang  it,  man,  such  conceit  would  make  a  cow  caper  a  horn- 
pipe,  or  a  Shelled  Drake  crow  like  a  cock." 

"  I  beg  you.  Mister  Bullock,  to  take  no  liberties  with  my 
name-especially  in  the  presence  of  the  fair  sex,"  bowing  grace- 
ftilly  to  Mrs.  Archer,  who  was  leaning  upon  the  back"  of  my 
chair,  half  suffocated  with  suppressed  laughter. 

"  What  are  you  quarrelling  about,  Sheldrake  ?"  said  the  good- 
natured  widow.  "  Bullock,  can't  you  let  his  sign  alone  ?  It  is 
something  new,  I  hear— something  in  praise  of  the  ladies." 

"  I  was  always  devoted  to  the  ladies,"  said  the  barber,  "  hav- 
ing expended  the  best  years  of  my  life  in  their  service." 

"Well,  well,  if  so  be  that  you  call  that  powetry  over  your 
door  a  compliment  to  the  women  folk,  I'll  be  shot  I"  said  the 
farmer.  "  Now,  sir,"  turning  to  me,  "you  are  a  stranger,  and 
therefore  unprejudiced  ;  you  shall  be  judge.  Come,  barber 
ref.eat  vour  verses,  and  hear  what  the  gemmen  says  of 
lh(tn." 

"Wilh  all  my  heart ;"  and  flinging  his  shoulders  back  and 
stretchmg  forlh  bis  right  arm,  the  barber  repeated  in  a  loud 
theatrical  tone, 

"  I,  William  Sheldrake,  shave  for  a  penny, 
Lndies  and  gentlemen— there  can't  come  too  many— 
With  heads  and  beards— I  meant  to  say 
Those  who've  got  none  may  keep  away." 


272 


J  ' 


m 


I 

W 
I? 


THE     MONCTONB. 


A  hearty  burst  of  laughter  from  us  all  greatly  disconcerted 
the  barber,  who  looked  us  ruefully  at  us  as  a  stuck  pig. 

"  You  hairy  monster,"  quoth  Mrs.  Archer,  "  what  do  you 
mean  by  shaving  the  ladies?  You  deserve  to  be  ducked  to 
death  m  a  tub  of  dirty  suds.  Beards  forsooth,"  and  she  patted 
with  evident  complacency,  her  round,  white,  dimpled  chin  \ 
"  who  ever  saw  a  woman  with  a  beard  ?  Did  you  take  us  all 
for  Lapland  witches  ?  I  wonder  what  our  pretty  young  lady 
up  at  Elm  Grove  would  say  to  your  absurd  verses." 

"  That  is  no  secret  to  me,  Mrs.  Archer.  I  do  know  what 
she  thinks  of  it.  Miss  Lee  is  a  young  lady  of  taste,  and  knows 
how  to  appreciate  good  poetry,  which  is  more  than  some  folks, 
not  a  hundred  miles  off,  does. 

"She  rode  past  my  shop  yesterday  on  horseback,  and  I  saw 
her  point  to  my  sign  with  her  riding-whip,  and  heard  her  say  to 
the  London  chap  that  is  allers  with  her, 
"  '  Js  not  that  capital  T 

"And  he  says,  ^Cnfital!  If  that  does  not  draw  custom  to 
the  shop,  nothing  will.'  So  now,  neighbor  Bullock,  you  may 
just  leave  off  sneering  at  my  sign." 

"  I  did  not  think  Miss  Lee  had  been  such  a  fool,"  said  Bul- 
lock, "  but  there's  no  accounting  for  taste." 

"Who  is  the  g»>ntlfman  that  is  staying  at  the  Elms  just 
now  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Archer.     "  Do  you  know  his  name  ?" 

"I've  heard,"  said  Suds,  "but  really  I  quite  forget.  It 
either  begins  with  an  M  or  an  N." 

"  That's  a  wide  landmark  to  sail  by,  Sheldrake.  You  might 
as  well  have  added  a  P  or  a  Q." 

"  Stop,"  said  the  barber,  "  I  can  give  you  a  clue  to  it.     Do 

you  remember,  Bullock,  the  name  of  the  fine  sporting  gemman 

that  ran  off  with  Parson  Rivers's  daughter  ?    I  was  a  boy  then, 

serving  my  time  with  Sam  Strap." 

I  started   from  the  contemplation  of  the  fine  well-grilled 


t 
f 

t 

d 

a 

8( 
tl 
fi 

8t 


til 

ne 
ou 


yrcatly  disconcerted 
.  stuck  pig, 
er,  "  wiiat  do  you 
I  to  be  ducked  to 
h,"  and  she  patted, 
ite,  dimpled  ciiin  ; 
)id  you  take  us  all 
pretty  young  lady 
erses." 

I  do  know  what 
f  taste,  and  knows 
e  than  some  folks, 

rseback,  and  I  saw 
d  heard  her  say  to 


)t  draw  custom  to 
Bullock,  you  may 

I  a  fool,"  said  Bul- 

at  the  Elms  just 
tis  name  ?" 
quite  forget.      It 

ake.     You  might 

a  clue  to  it.  Do 
sporting  gemmau 
I  was  a  boy  then, 

I  fine  well-grilled 


THE    MONCfJNS, 


273 


beef-Steak    that    Mrs.  Archer   was    dishing  for    my  especial 
benefit. 

"  Well,"  said  Sheldrake,  "  he  is  either  a  sou  or  a  nefy  of  his, 
and  has  the  same  name." 

^^  "  The  deuce  he  is  I    That  was  Moncton  if  I  mistake  not. 
"  Yes,  yes,  Moncton  was  the  name.     I  well  remember  it,  for  it 
was  the  means  of  our  losing  our  good  old  pastor  " 
"  How  was  that  ?"  said  I,  trying  to  look  indifferent. 
"  Why,  sir,  do  you  see.    Mr.  Rivers  had  been  many  years  in 
the  parish.     He  married  my  father  and  mother,  and  baptized 
me,  when  a  babby.     He  did  more  than  that.    He  married  mo  to 
my  old  woman,  when  I  was  a  man— but  that  was  the  worst  job 
he  ever  done. 

"  Well,  sir,  as  I  was  telling  you.  He  was  a  good  man  and  a 
a  Cliristain.  But  he  had  one  little  weakness.  We  have  all  our 
faults  sir.  He  loved  his  pretty  daughter  too  well— wise  men 
will  sometimes  play  the  fool,  and  'tis  a  bad  thing  to  make  too 
much  of  woman-kind.  Like  servants  they  grow  saucy  upon  it. 
They  always  gets  the  advantage,  any  how,  and  our  old  parson 
did  pet  and  spoil  Miss  Ellen,  to  her  heart's  content. 

"  There  was  some  excuse  too  for  him,  for  he  was  an  old  man 
and  a  widower.  He  had  lost  his  wife  and  a  large  family.  Par- 
sons always  have  large  families.  My  wife  do  say,  that  'tis  because 
they  have  nothing  else  to  do.  But  I'se  very  sure,  that  I  should 
find  preaching  and  sermon  work  hard  enough." 

"  Lord,  man,  what  a  roundabout  way  you  have  of  telling  a 
Btory,"  cried  Suds,  who  was  impatient  to  hear  his  own  voice  again. 
"  Get  on  a  little  quicker.  Don't  you  see,  the  gemmen's  steak's 
a-getting  cold— and  he  can't  eat  and  listen  to  you  at  the  same 
time,  an  art  1  learnt  long  ago." 

"  Mind  your  own  business,  Sheldrake,"  said  the  farmer,  "  I 
never  trouble  my  head  with  the  nonsense  that  is  always  frothing 
out  of  your  mouth." 

18* 


s 

'> 


914 


THE     MONCTONS. 


"  Well,  8ir,"  tnniing  Bj;iiin  to  me,  "  ns  I  wns  saying  ;  his  wife 
and  ftimil'y  hild  nil  (lied  n>  the  cousuuiption,  which  nnido  him  so 
ftfraid  of  losing  MIks  EHen,  that  ho  denied  her  nothing,  and 
truly  she  wns  .is  pretty  a  piece  of  God's  workmanship  as  ever 
you  saw-and  very  sweet-tempered  and  gentle,  which  beauties 
seldom  are.  I  had  the  misfortuno  to  mnrry  a  pretty  woman, 
and  I  knows  it  to  my  cost.  But  I  need  not  trouble  you  with 
my  missus.     It's  bad  enough  to  be  troubled  with  her  myself. 

"  So,  sir— as  I  was  telling  you.  There  came  a  mighty  fine 
gentleman  down  from  London,  to  stay  at  the  Elm  Grove,  with 
my  old  landlord  Squire  Leo,  who's  dead  aud  gone." 
"  This  Squire  Lee,  was  the  son  of  old  Squire  Lee." 
"  I  dare  say,  Bullock,  the  gemman  does  not  care  a  farthing 
whose  SOD  he  wus,"  cried  the  impatient  barber.  "  You  are  so 
fond  Of  genealogies,  that  it's  a  pity  you  don't  begin  with  the 
last  squire,  and  end  with,  which  waa  the  son  of  Seth,  which 
was  the  sou  of  A^nm,  &c." 

Thesti  interruptions  were  very  annoying,  as  I  was  on  the  ten- 
ter hooks  to  get  out  of  il»e  mountain  of  flesh,  the  head  and  tail 
of  the  story,  he  found  such  difficulty  in  bringing  forth. 

"  Pray  go  on  with  your  story,  friend,"  I  said,  very  demurely, 
for  fear  of  harrying  him  into  becoming  more  discursive.  "  I 
feel  quite  interested." 

"  Well,  sir,  this  young  man  came  to  stay  at  the  Grove,  during 
the  shooting  season  ;  and  he  sees  Miss  Ellen  at  church,  and 
falls  desperately  in  love  with  her.  This  was  all  very  natural.  I 
was  a  youngster  myself  once,  and  a  smart  active  chap,  although 
I  be  clumsy  enough  now,  and  I  remember  feeling  rather  queer- 
ish,  whenever  I  cast  a  sheep's  eye  into  the  parson's  pew." 

"  But  the  young  lady  aud  her  lover  ?"-for  I  perceived  that 
be  was  trotting  off  at  full  gallop  in  another  direction—"  how 

did  they  come  on  ?" 

"  Oh,  ay.    As  young  people  generaly  do  iu  such  cases.    Fr(  m 


c: 
w 
ti 
ti 
c< 

le 
ie 

in 
ol 

111 

til 

to 

di 

at 

he 

M 

I 

wi 

th 

th 

nc 

i»l 

hii 

m; 

to 
bt 
lel 


'.•'«R*.w^>«'— ^■^■'w^'^'=*'-     -^  ' 


i  saying  ;  hifl  wife 
liicli  iniiilc  liim  go 

her  iiuthiiig,  iiud 
rkiuiiiiship  aa  ever 
le,  which  beauties 
r  a  pretty  womun, 
troubU'  you  with 
ith  her  myself, 
luie  a  mighty  fine 

Elm  Grove,  with 
one." 
re  Lee." 

ot  care  a  farthing 
er.  "  You  are  so 
't  begin  witli  the 
n  of  Seth,  which 

I  I  was  on  the  ten- 
,  the  head  and  tail 
ng  forth. 

lid,  very  demurely, 
re  discursive,    "  I 

;  the  Grove,  during 
len  at  church,  and 
ill  very  natural.  I 
tive  chap,  although 
eling  rather  queer- 
rsoii's  pew." 
or  I  perceived  that 
ir  direction — "  how 

,  such  cases.    Fr(  m 


THK     UONCTONS. 


ST6 


exchanging  looks,  they  came  to  exchanging  letters,  and  then 
words.  Stolen  meetings,  and  presents  of  hearts  cut  out  of 
turnips,  witii  a  skewer  put  through  them,  to  show  the  despera- 
tion of  the  case.  That  was  the  way  at  least,  that  I  went,  a 
courting  my  Martha,  and  it  took  amazingly." 

"  Hang  you,  and  your  Martha  !"  thought  I,  as  I  turned  help- 
lessly to  the  beef-steak,  but  I  felt  too  much  excited  to  do  it  the 
least  justice. 

After  deliberately  knocking  the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  and  tak- 
ing  a  long  draught  of  ale  from  the  pewter  pot  beside  him,  the 
old  farmer  went  on  of  his  own  accord. 

"  I  s'pose  the  young  man  told  Miss  Ellen  that  he  could  not 
live  without  her.  We  all  tell  'em  so,  but  we  never  dies  a  bit 
the  sooner,  for  all  that — and  the  pretty  Miss  told  him  to  speak 
to  her  father,  and  he  did  speak,  and  to  his  surprise,  old  parson 
did  not  like  it  at  all,  and  did  not  give  him  a  very  civil  \an8wer  ; 
and  turned  the  young  chnp  out  of  the  house.  He  said,  that 
he  did  not  approve  of  sporting  characters  for  sons-in-law,  and 
Miss  Ellen  should  never  get  his  consent  to  marry  him.  But  as 
I  told  you  before,  sir.  The  women-folk  will  have  their  own 
way,  especially  when  there  is  a  sweet-heart  or  a  new  bonnet  in 
the  case,  and  the  young  lady  gave  him  her  own  consent,  and 
they  took  French  leave  and  went  off  without  saying  a  word  to 
nobody. 

"Next  morning  old  parson  was  rnnning  about  the  village,  ask- 
ing everybody  if  they  had  seen  his  child,  the  tears  running  over 
his  thin  face,  and  he  raving  like  a  man  out  of  his  head." 

"  And  were  the  young  people  ever  married  ?"  and  in  spite  of 
myself  I  felt  the  color  flush  my  face  to  crimson. 

"  I  never  heard  to  the  contrary.  But  it  was  not  rigi.\t  of  her 
to  vex  the  poor  old  man  ;  he  took  it  so  to  heart,  that  it  o'lite 
broke  his  spirit,  and  he  lived  but  a  very  few  months  after  she 
left  him." 


ate 


THi     MOMCTO  N8. 


Hw  death  wn«  s  great  Iom  to  the  neighborhood.  We  nerer 
m.  a  par.0,,  that  could  hold  a  candle  to  him  «ince.     He  wm. 
tather  to  the  poor,  and  it  wa«  a  thousand  pitie,  to  nee  the  good 
o     „.„„  pa..,„  „.d  drooping  fron.  da,  to  day.  aud  fretting  C 
-elf  after  the  Hpo.,    gall  who  forsook  him  In  his  old  age  " 

Yoa  are  too  h.rd  upon  the  young  lady"  said  Suds -"it 
was  but  human  natur  after  all.  and  small  bla'^e  in  her  to  pref 
aJ.a^al«o,„e  young   husband  to  an  old  snuffy  superaoratd 

"  Did  she  erer  return  to ?" 

••  She  Me  to  .e.  her  fMh.r  m  hi.  d;i„g  ill„e»,  b„t  ,«,  |.^ 

.t.,rs      H,.  1„,  ,„,d,_.Th.„k  Ood  EILn  i,  cj«  l,Z,  1 

tbeirn::  h " '°°""'-  "^  '»■' '"  ^-^"^  '""'^^ 

t.H."";!!;  T'"  '  ""f'"'  '•■"■«'«"'y.0™'i"8  my  chlr  from  th. 
table,     yoa  hav»  i«ti.6ed  my  cariosity  » 

The  hopes  and  fears  which  this  conversation  had  produced 
had  the  effect  of  destroying  my  appetite.     It  was  in  vTn     at 

b  peTs:    tV^^P^'  "^  "'''  *  "-^^  of  delicac  e    n   ; 
Bbape  of  sweet  home-made  bread,  delicious  fresh  butter,  and 


< 

t 
1 

( 

s< 
g 


THE     M0NCT0N8. 


877 


orhood.  We  ncTer 
since.  He  wtus  a 
B8  to  see  the  good 
aud  fretting  him- 
I  old  age." 
'  said  Suds,—."  it 
le  in  her  to  prefer 
!>  saperaottuated 


less,  but  too  late 
step  WI18  on  tho 
L'ome,  I  shall  see 
ircd  directly  the 
insband  followed 
',  I  never  aaw  a 

eh  in  which  they 

K  as  it  did  not 
knows,  she  was 
p  went  to  school 

r  chair  frona  the 


humming  ale,  the  power  of  mental  excitement  overpowered  the 
mere  grutiacation  of  tho  senses. 

"  licfore  I  retired  for  the  night.  I  had  the  mortification  of 
Bcuig  my  loquaciou8  companions  doing  ample  justice  to  the 
savory  supper,  from  which  I  had  risen  with  indittoreneo 

1  sought  tho  solitude  of  my  chamber,  undressed,  and  flung 
myself  .nto  bed.  To  sleep  was  out  of  tho  question.  Catherine 
Lee,  Margarett*  Moncton  and  my  dear  mother  floated  in  a  con- 
tmual  whirl  through  my  heated  brain.  My  mind  was  a  perfect 
chaos  of  confused  images  and  thoughts  ;  nor  could  I  reflect 
calmly  on  one  subject  for  two  minutes  together. 

My  head  ached,  my  heart  beat  tnmultuously,  and  in  order 
to  allay  this  feverish  mental  irritation.  I  took  a  large  dose  of 
laudanum  which  produced  the  desired  effect  of  lulling  me  into 
profound  forge tfulness. 

The  day  wag  far  advanced  when  I  shook  off  this  heavy  unwhole- 
somt  slumber,  but  on  endeavoring  to  rise,  I  felt  so  stupid  and 
g'ddy     hat  I  was  fain  to  take  a  cup  of  coffee  in  bed.     A  table- 
spoonful  of  lime-juice  administered  by  the  white  hand  of  Mm 
Archer,  counteracted  the  unpleasant  effects  of  the  opiate 


Of?  violently.— 
inity  of  Oather- 
icquainted  with 


had  produced 
ts  in  vain  that 
elicocies  in  the 
ih  butter,  and 


218 


THE    MONOTOim. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 


ELM      GROTB. 


On  calmly  reviewing  the  conversation  of  the  past  night,  I 
determined  to  walk  over  to  Elm  Grove,  and  confide  my  situation 
to  Mrs.  Hepburn,  wuo,  as  a  friend  of  my  mother's,  might  feel 
more  interested  in  me,  than  she  bad  done  in  Mr.  Robert  Monc- 
ton's  poor  dependent  clerk. 

I  was  so  well  pleased  with  this  plan  that  I  immediately  put 
it  into  exesution,  and  gave  myself  no  time  to  alter  my  resolu 
tion,  until  I  found  myself  waiting  the  appearance  of  the  lady,  in 
an  elegant  drawing-room,  which  commanded  the  most  beautiful 
prospect  of  hill  and  dale,  in  that  most  beautiful  and  romantic  of 
English  counties. 

Mrs.  Hepburn  was  past  the  meridian  of  life.  Her  counte- 
nance was  by  no  means  handsome,  but  the  expression  was  gentle 
and  agreeable,  and  her  whole  appearance  lady-like  aid  pre- 
possessing. 

She  had  mingled  a  great  deal  in  the  world,  which  had  given 
her  such  a  perfect  control  over  her  features,  that  little  could  be 
read  of  the  inward  emotions  of  the  mind,  from  the  calm  and 
almost  immovable  placidity  of  her  face. 

A  slight  look  of  surprise  at  the  sight  of  a  visitor  so  unex- 
pected, and,  iu  all  probability,  equally  unwelcome,  made  me  feel 
most  keenly  the  awkwardness  of  the  situation  in  which  1  was 
placed.  The  cold  and  courteous  manner  in  which  she  asked  to 
what  cause  she  was  indebted  for  the  pleasure  of  a  visit  from 


THB     MONCTONS. 


279 


the  past  night,  I 
nfide  my  sitaation 
ither's,  might  feel 
\lr.  Robert  Monc- 

[  immediately  put 
0  alter  my  resolu 
ice  of  the  lady,  iin 
he  most  beautiful 
il  and  romantic  of 

ife.  Her  connte- 
ression  was  gentle 
ady-like  aid  pre- 

which  had  giren 
lat  little  could  be 
om  the  calm  and 

i  visitor  so  nnex- 
tme,  made  me  feel 
n  in  which  1  was 
rhlch  she  asked  to 
■e  of  a  visit  from 


Mr.  Geoffrey   Moncton,   did  not  tend   to  diminish  my  con- 
fusion. 

1  suffered  my  agitation  so  completely  to  master  me,  that  for 
a  few  seconds  I  could  find  no  words  wherewith  to  frame  the 
most  commonplace  answer. 

Observing  my  distress,  slie  begged  me  to  take  a  seat,  and 
placing  herself  on  the  opposite  .side  of  the  table,  she  continued 
to  regard  me  with  the  most  provoiving  none'-'   ,ce. 

Making  a  desperate  effort  to  break  the  oppressive  silence  I 
contrived  at  last  to  stammer  out, 

"  I  hope,  madam,  you  will  excuse  the  liberty  I  have  taken  by 
thus  intruding  myself  upon  your  notice  ;  but  business  of  a  very 
delicate  and  distressing  nature  induced  me  to  apply  to  you  as 
the  only  person  at  all  likely  to  befriend  me  in  my  present 
diflBculty."  .  *^ 

Her  look  of  surprise  increased  ;  nor  do  I  wonder  at  it  con- 
sidering the  ambiguity  of  my  speech.  What  must  she 'have 
thought?  Nothing  very  favorable  to  me,  1  am  sure.  I  could 
have  bitten  my  tongue  off  for  my  want  of  tact,  but  the  blunder 
was  out,  and  she  answered  with  some  asperity. 

That  we  were  almost  strangers  to  each  other,  and  that  she 

could  not  imagine  in  what  way  she  could  serve  me,  without  nv 

request  was  a  pecuniary  one,  in  which  case,  she  owed  me  a  debt 

of  gratitude  which  she  would  gladly  repay.    That  she  had 

heard,  with  sorrow,  from  Mr.  Theophilus  Moncton.  the  manner 

m  which  I  had  been  expelled  from  his  fatlier's  office.     That  she 

bitterly  lamented  that  she  or  her  niece  should  have  directly  or 

.ndirectly  have  been  the  cause  of  my  disgrace.     She  had  been 

told,  however,  that  the  cause  of  Mr.  Moncton's  displeasure 

ongmated  in  my  own  rash  conduct,  and  she  feared  that  no 

application  from  her  in  my  behalf,  would  be  likely  to  effect  a 

reconciliation  between  me  and  my  uncle. 

The  color  burnt  upon  my  cheek,  and  I  answered  with  some 
warmth .- 


w 


if 


l!it 


280 


THE     H0MCT0K8. 


"  God  forbid,  thut  I  should  erer  seek  it  at  his  hands  t  It  it 
neither  to  solicit  charity  nor  to  complain  to  you,  Mrs.  Hepburn, 
of  my  past  ill-treatment,  that  I  sought  an  interview  with  yon 
this  morning.  But — but " — and  my  voice  faltered,  and  my  eyes 
sought  the  ground,  "  I  was  told  last  night  that  you  were  the 
intimate  friend  of  my  mother." 

"  And  who,  sir,  was  your  mother  ?" 

'*  Her  name  was  Ellen  Rivers." 

"  Good  He-'vens  1  you  the  son  of  Ellen  Rivers  ;"  and  the 
calm  face  became  intensely  agitated.  "  You,  Geoffrey  Monc- 
ton,  the  child  of  my  first  and  dearest  friend.  I  was  told  you 
were  the  natural  son  of  her  husband  " 

"  But  was  he  her  husband  7"  and  I  almost  gasped  for  breath. 

•'Who  dares  to  doubt  it?" 

"This  same  honorable  uncle  of  mine.  He  positively  aEBrms 
that  my  mother  was  never  lawful^  the  wife  of  Edward  Mono- 
ton.  He  has  br^  V  ^  the  names  of  my  parents  with  infamy, 
and  destroyed  ev .  ,  iment  which  could  prove  my  legitimacy. 
The  only  advantag  :..'  I  derived  from  a  niggardly  destiny — 
my  good  name — a»k„  jecn  wrenched  from  me  by  this  cold-blooded, 
dastardly  villain  !"  v<. .. 

I  was  too  much  excited  to  speak  with  moderation  ,  I  trem- 
bled with  passion. 

"  Be  calm,  Mr.  Geoffrey,"  said  Mrs.  Hepburn,  si)eaking  in  a 
natural  and  affectionate  tone.  "  Let  us  go  at  length  into  the  mat- 
ter, and  if  I  can  in  any  way  assist  you,  I  will  do  so  most  cheer- 
fully ;  although  I  must  confess,  that  as  matters  stand  between 
the  families  just  now,  it  is  rather  an  awkward  piece  of  business. 
Your  uncle,  perhaps,  never  knew  that  I  was  acquainted  witii 
Miss  Rivers,  or  felt  any  interest  in  her  fate.  These  deep  seeing 
men  often  overreach  themselves.  But  let  me  hear  the  tale  you 
have  to  tell,  and  then  I  can  better  judge  of  its  truth  or  fals* 
hood." 

Encouraged  by  the  chiinge  in  Mrs.  Hepburn's  tone  and  bear- 


Ii 

tl 
ai 
»] 

of 

W( 

ce 
of 
ani 

tor 

nil 
< 

I 

is  a 

toi 

dea 

esta 

whi( 
>( 

Mot 
(I 

uncl( 

doul 

whei 

whic 

age, 

legal) 

"( 

me,  a 

sou  I 


ids  I  It  il 
.  Hepburn, 
V  with  yoa 
nd  my  eyes 
ta  were  the 


;"  and  the 
iffrey  Monc- 
as  told  you 

for  breath. 

lively  affirms 
ward  Monc- 
viih  infamy, 
y  legitimacy, 
ly  destiny— 
old-blooded, 

lion  ,  I  treui- 

Leaking  in  a 
[into  the  mat- 
most  cheer- 
md  between 
of  business, 
luaiuted  with 
deep  serin}? 
the  tale  you 
•uth  or  fals'> 

Le  and  bear- 


THE     MONOTONS, 


281 


Iiig,  I  gave  her  a  brief  statement  of  the  events  of  my  life,  up  to 
the  hour  in  which  I  came  to  an  open  rupture  with  my  uncle  ; 
and  he  basely  destroyed  my  articles,  and  I  fonnd  myself  cast 
upou  the  world  without  the  means  of  subsistence. 

Mrs.  Hepburn  was  greatly  astonished  at  the  narration,  and 
often  interrupted  me  to  express  her  indigaation. 

"  And  this  is  the  man,  that  bears  aixrh  a  fair  character  to  the 
world.  The  friend  of  the  friendless,  and  the  guardian  of  inno- 
cence. Geoffrey  Moncton,  you  make  me  afraid  of  the  world, 
of  myself — of  every  one.  But  what  are  you  doing  for  a  living, 
and  what  brings  you  into  Derbyshire  ?" 

"  I  am  living  at  present  in  the  family  of  Sir  Alexander  Monc- 
ton, who  has  behaved  in  the  most  generous  manner  to  his  poor 
relation." 

"  You  have  in  him  a  powerful  protector." 

"  Yes,  and  I  may  add,  without  boasting,  a  sincere  friend.  It 
is  at  his  expense,  and  on  his  instigation  that  I  am  here,  in  ordec 
to  find  out  some  clue  by  which  I  may  trace  the  marriage  of  my 
dear  mother,  and  establish  a  legitimate  claim  to  the  title  and 
estates  of  Moncton,  at  the  worthy  Baronet's  demise,  an  event, 
which  may  God  keep  far  distant " — I  added  witli  fervor. 

•'If  I  fail  in  this  object,  the  property  devolves  to  Robert 
Moncton  and  his  son." 

"  I  see  it,  I  see  it  all — but  I  fear,  Mr.  Geoffrey,  that  your 
uncle  has  laid  his  plans  too  deeply  for  us  to  frustrate.  I  feel  no 
doubts,  as  to  your  mother's  marriage,  though  I  was  not  present 
when  that  event  took  place,  but  I  can  tell  you  the  church  io 
which  the  ceremony  was  performed.  Your  mother  was  just  of 
age,  and  tiie  consent  of  parents  was  unnecessary,  as  far  as  the 
legality  of  the  marriage  was  concerned." 

"  God  bless  you  1"  I  cried,  taking  the  hand  she  extended  to 
me,  and  pressing  it  heartily  between  my  own.  "  My  mother's 
son  blesses  yon,  for  the  kind  sympathy  you  have  expressed  la 


m 


THE    M0N0T0K8. 


his  welfare.  Yon  are  my  good  angel,  and  have  inspired  me  witb 
a  thousand  new  and  pleasing  hopes." 

"  These  will  not,  however,  prove  yonr  legitimacj  my  young 
friend,"  she  said,  with  a  smile — "  so  restrain  your  ardor  for  a 
more  fortunate  time.  I  have  a  letter  from  yonr  mother,  written 
the  morning  after  her  marriage,  describing  her  feelings  during 
the  ceremony  and  the  remorse  that  marred  her  happiness,  for 
having  disobeyed  and  abandoned  her  aged  father.  She  mentions 
her  old  nurse,  and  her  father's  gardener,  as  being  the  only  wit- 
nesses present,  and  remarks  on  the  sexton  giving  her  away, 
that  it  was  a  bad  omen,  that  she  felt  superstitious  about  it, 
and  that  her  husband  laughed  at  her  fears. 

"  The  register  of  the  marnage,  you  say,  has  been  destroyed. 
''  he  parties  who  witnessed  it,  are  most  likely  gathered  to  their 
)  athers.  But  the  very  circumstance  of  the  register  having  been 
destroyed,  and  this  letter  of  your  mother's,  will,  I  think,  be 

greatly  in  your  favor.     At  all  events,  the  parisli  of is  only 

a  pleasant  ride  among  the  Derby  hills  ;  and  you  can  examine 
the  registers  for  a  trifling  donation  to  the  clerk  ;  and  ascertain 
from  him,  whether  Mr.  Roche,  the  clergyniun  who  then  resided 
in  the  parish,  or  his  sexton,  are  still  living. 

"  I  will  now  introduce  you  to  my  niece,  who  always  speaks  of 
yon  with  interest,  and  refuses  to  believe  the  many  things  ad- 
vanced by  your  cousin  to  your  disadvantage." 

"  Just  like  Miss  Lee.  She  is  not  one  to  listen  to  the  slanders 
of  an  enemy,  behind  one's  back.  I  heard  in  the  village,  that 
Mr.  Theophilns  was  in  this  neighborhood,  and  a  suitor  of  Miss 
Lee'fl." 

"  A  mere  village  gossip.  He  is  staying  with  Mr.  Thurton, 
who  lives  in  the  pretty  old-fashioned  house,  you  passed  on  the 
hill,  on  your  way  hither,  and  is  a  frequent  visitor  here.  Mr. 
Honcton  is  anxious  to  promote  an  alliance  between  his  son  and 
my  niece.  In  birth  aud  fortune,  they  are  equals,  and  the 
match,  in  a  worldly  point  of  view,  unexceptional." 


c 

si 
ri 

tl 
{» 

vi 

ni 
bi 
th 
fr 

at 
lui 

80 

ap 

cai 

am 
th< 


THE     XOMOTOlfa. 


191 


ired  me  witb 

cy  my  young 
ardor  for  a 
ther,  written 
slings  during 
lappiness,  for 
Sbe  uieutions 
the  only  wit- 
g  her  away, 
tus  about  it, 

an  destroyed. 
Iiered  to  their 
r  having  been 
I,  I  think,  be 
' iu  only 

can  examine 
and  BHCertaia 

then  resided 

ays  speaks  of 
y  things  ad- 

tbe  slanJers 

village,  that 

ultor  of  Miss 

Mr.  Thurton, 
assed  on  the 
here.  Mr. 
his  son  and 
als,  and  the 


••^And  TheophUu8  V 

"  Is  the  most  devoted  of  lovers." 


"  Execrabia  villain  !  and  his  poor  young  wife  dying  at  the 
Hall  of  a  broken  heart.  Can  such  things  be — and  the  vengeance 
of  heaven  sleep  1" 

"  You  don't  mean  to  insinuate  that  Mr.  Theophilns  Moncton 
is  a  married  man." 

"  I  scorn  insinuations,  I  speak  of  facts — which  to  his  face,  I 
dare  him  to  deny." 

"  My  dear  Kate  !"  cried  Mrs.  Hepburn  sinking  back  in  her 
chair.  "  I  have  combated  for  several  weeks  with  what  I  con- 
sidered an  unreasonable  prejudice  on  her  part  against  this  mar- 
riage. And  this  very  morning  I  was  congratulating  myself  on 
the  possibility  of  getting  her  to  receive  Mr.  Moncton's  suit  more 
favorably.  Ah,  Mr.  Geoffrey  I  doubly  her  preserver,  your  timely 
visit  has  saved  the  dear  girl  from  unutterable  misery." 

I  then  informed  Mrs.  Hepburn,  of  all  the  particulars  of  this 
unfortanAte  marriage.  Of  young  Moncton's  desertion  and 
barbarous  treatment  of  his  wife — of  her  attempted  suicide,  and 
the  providential  manner  in  which  she  had  been  rescued  by  me 
from  the  grave. 

This  painful  interview,  which  had  lasted  several  hours,  was 
at  length  terminated  by  the  entrance  of  Miss  Lee  and  Theophi- 
lns, who  had  been  absent  riding  with  some  friends. 

They  entered  from  the  garden,  and  Mrs.  Hepburn  and  I  were 
80  deeply  engaged  in  conversation  that  we  did  not  notice  their 
approach  until  Catherine  called  out  in  a  tone  of  alarm  : — 

"  Mr.  Geoffrey  Moncton  here,  and  my  aunt  in  tears  7  What 
can  have  happened  ?" 

"  Yes,  Kate,  yon  will  be  glad  to  see  an  old  friend,"  said  her 
aunt.  "  To  you,  Mr.  Moncton,"  taming  to  Theophilns,  "  he  ia 
the  bearer  of  sad  tidings." 

**  Anything  happened  to  my  father  7"  said  Theophilos,  lookivf 


■Ml 


l*"JIHl 


t9i 


TU  K     H  O  N  CT  0  N  a. 


towards  me  with  an  expression  in  his  green  eyes,  of  inteiiEC  and 
hungry  inquiry,  which,  for  a  moment,  overcame  his  first  glance 
of  aversion  and  contempt. 

I  read  the  meaning  of  that  loolt,  and  answered  scorn  for 
scorn. 

"  Of  your  father  and  Aw  affairs  1  know  nothing.  The  tie  of 
kindred  is  broken  between  us.  I  wish  that  I  knew  as  little  of 
you  and  yours." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  and  his  pale  cheek  flushed  with  crimson. 
"  Hit  to  traduce  ray  character,  to  insult  me  before  ladies,  that 
you  dare  to  intrude  yourself  in  ray  corapany  ?  What  brings 
you  here  ?    What  message  have  yon  for  me  ?" 

"  With  you,"  I  said,  coldly,  "  I  have  no  business,  nor  did  I 
ever  wish  to  see  you  again.  My  steps  were  guided  here  by  thai 
Providence  which  watches  over  the  innocent,  and  avenges  the 
wrongs  of  the  injured.  It  is  not  my  nature  to  stab  oven  an 
enemy  in  the  dark.  What  I  have  to  say  to  you  will  be  said 
openly  and  to  your  face." 

"This  is  fine  language,"  he  said,  bursting  into  a  scornful 
laugh.  "  On  what  provincial  theatre  have  you  been  studying, 
since  yon  were  expelled  my  father's  office  ?" 

"  1  have  not  yet  learned  to  act  the  part  of  the  hypocrite  and 
betrayer,  in  the  great  drama  of  life.  Or  by  lying  and  deceit  to 
exalt  myself  upon  the  ruin  of  others." 

"  Go  on.  go  on,"  he  cried,  "  I  perceive  your  drift.  You  are 
a  better  actor  than  you  imagine  yourself.  Such  accusations  as 
yott  can  bring  against  me,  will  redound  more  to  my  credit  than 
praise  from  such  lips." 

"  Theophilus  Moncton,"  I  replied,  calmly,  "  I  did  not  invade 
the  sanctity  of  this  roof  in  order  to  meet  and  quarrel  with  you. 
What  I  have  to  say  to  yon  I  will  communicate  elsewhere." 

"  Here,  sir,  if  you  please— here  to  my  face.  I  am  no  cowaru. 
Mid  that  yon  know  of  old.     I  am  certain  that  you  cannot  nam.- 


II 
ft 
a 
L 

fr 

I 

th 
su 
tb 


mr-m 


g,  of  iateiiee  aiid 
)  his  first  gknc* 

iWered  scorn  for 

ing.  Tlie  tie  of 
(new  as  little  of 

bed  with  crimson, 
efore  ladies,  that 
?    What  brings 

isiness,  nor  did  I 
ided  here  by  thai 
and  avenges  the 
to  stab  even  an 
you  will  be  said 

;  into  a  scornful 
u  been  studying, 

the  hypocrite  and 
ing  and  deceit  to 

•  drift.  You  are 
ich  accusations  as 
to  my  credit  than 

'  I  did  not  invade 

quarrel  with  you. 

!  elsewhere.'' 

I  am  no  cowaru, 

you  cannot  namo 


T  H  K      Se  (>  V  C  T  O  N  S  . 


285 


"refijf  "*'  "^  disadvantage,  but  what  I  am  able  triumphantly 

"Wen-be  it  so  then.  I  find  you  here  a  suitor  for  this  lady's 
I'and.  Foar  days  ago  your  wife  att^mot^d  suicide,  and  was 
rescued  from  a  watery  grave  by  my  arm." 

''  Liar  I  'tis  false  1  Do  not  listen,  ladies,  to  this  vile  calum- 
niator. He  has  a  purpose  of  his  own  to  serve,  by  traducing  my 
character  to  my  friends.  Let  bim  bring  witnesses  more  worthy 
of  credit  than  himself,  before  you  condemn  me  " 

"I  condemn  no  one,  Mr.  Theophilus,"  said  Mrs.  Hepburn 
gravely^  "  Sir  Alexander  Monctou  r.  a  person  of  credit,  and 
frThil?"  "  **  ^'"'''"*  '"'^"'  *'''  P'"*""*'""-     What  can  you  say 

She  spoke  in  vain.  Theoohilus  Ir^ft  the  room  without  deiRn- 
»"g  to  reply.     We  looked  in  sUeni-e  ^t  ea^h  other. 

Miss  Lee  was  the  first  who  sdoko. 

'•  He  is  convicted  by  his  own  con.science  I  thought  him  cold 
and  selbsh,  but  never  dreamed  tnat  he  was  a  villain.  And  the 
poor  young  woman,  his  wife,  what  is  her  name  ?" 

"  Alice  Mornington." 

A  faint  cry  broke  from  ttie  jps  of  Catherine.  I  caught  ner 
m  my  arms  before  she  fell,  and  mace-l  her  in  a  chair  ;  she  had 
fainted.  Mrs.  Hepburn  rang  the  dell  for  one  of  her  female 
attendants,  and  amid  the  bustle  and  confusion  of  removing  Miss 
Lee  to  her  own  apartment,  I  took  the  opportunity  of  retiring 
rrom  the  scene. 

"  What  new  mystery  does  this  involve  ?»  I  said  half  aloud  as 
I  sauntered  down  the  thick  avenue  which  led  from  the  house  to 
the  h,gh.road.  "  Why  did  the  mention  of  that  name  produce 
such  an  effect  upon  Catherine  ?  She  cannot  be  acquainted  with 
the  parties.  Her  agitation  might  be  accidental.  'Tis  strange 
—very  strange  " * 

"Stop  1"  cried  a  loud  voice  near  me  ;  and  pale  and  haggard, 


^WM 


'■^H 


386 


TH£     MONCT0N8, 


l)i8  hands  fiercely  clenched,  and  his  eyes  starting  from  his  head, 
Theophilus  confronted  rae. 

"  Qeoffrey,  this  meeting  must  be  oar  last." 

"  With  all  my  heart ;"  and  folding  my  arms  I  loolced  hin; 
steadfastly  in  the  face. 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  expression  of  that  countenanct), 
transformed  as  it  was  with  furious  passion  ;  livid,  convulaeu  , 
every  feature  swollen  and  quivering  with  malice  and  despmc. 
It  was  dreadful  to  contemplate — scarcely  human. 

How  often  since  has  it  haunted  me  in  dreams. 

The  desire  of  revenge  had  overcome  his  usual  oantiun.  «u 
the  mood  he  was  then  in,  his  pnny  figure  would  have  been  « 
match  for  a  gi&nt. 

"  I  seek  no  explanation  of  yoar  conduct,"  he  said  ;  "  we  hau^ 
each  other ;"  h^  gnashed  his  teeth  as  he  spoke.  "  I  have  minea 
you,  and  you  have  done  your  best  to  return  the  compliment 
But  you  shall  not  triumph  in  my  disgrace.  If  we  fall  it  snail  t>e 
together." 

He  sprang  upon  me  unawares.  He  wound  his  thin  sinewy 
arms  around  me.  I  was  taken  by  surprise,  and  before  I  could 
raise  my  arm  to  defend  myself  from  his  ferocious  attack,  I  wm 
thrown  heavily  to  the  ground.  The  last  thing  that  I  can  au> 
tinctly  recollect  was  his  thin  bony  fingers  grasping  my  tnroat 


MJ^s^fjfj;  c^ 


a 
u 
I 
0 


om  bis  head, 


looked  hiiii 

:ountenancu, 

conTulseu  , 

Eind  despttic. 


santiun.  «u 
liave  been  » 

;  "  we  haU' 
have  rninea 
compliment 

^11  it  snail  t>e 

■  -J 

thin  sinewj 
sfore  I  could 
ttack,  I  wm 
It  I  can  au> 
ny  tnroat 


m^p  . 


?■■    )iovcro.^a. 


981 


CHAPTbR  XX VH, 

mr    NCBSB— AND   WHO    8HB    WAS 

Thk  night  was  far  advanced  *hen  I  recovered  my  senses 
The  room  I  occupied  was  large  and  spacious  ;  the  bed  on  which 
I  was  lying  such  as  wealth  supplies  to  her  most  luxurious  child- 
ron.  One  watch-light  with  shaded  rays,  scarcely  illuminated  a 
small  portion  of  the  ample  chamber,  teaving  the  remote  corners 
la  mtense  shade.  -  i 

A  female  figure,  in  a  long,  loose,  white  wrapp]ng-gown,'^w8s 
seated  it  the  table  reading.  Her  back  was  towards  me,  and 
my  head  was  too  heavy  aud  my  eyes  too  dim  to  recognize  the 
person  of  the  stranger. 

I  strove  to  lift  my  head  from  the  pillow ;  the  effort  wrung 
from  my  lips  a  moan  of  pain.  This  brought  the  lady  instantly 
to  my  side. 

It  was  Mrs.  Hepburn's  face,  but  it  faded  from  my  sight  like 
tne  faces  that  look  upon  us  In  dreams.  Recollection  and  sight 
failed  me — I  remember  nothing  more. 

Many  days  passed  unconsciously  over  me.  Nearly  three 
weeks  elapsed  before  I  was  able  to  bear  the  light,  or  ask  ah 
explanation  of  the  past. 

Mrs.  Hepburn  and  Miss  Lee  were  my  constant  attendants,  and 
a  middle-aged,  respectable  man  in  livery,  who  slept  in  my  apart- 
ment, and  rendered  me  the  most  kind  and  essential  services. 
Dan  Simpson  was  an  old  servant  of  the  family.  Had  been  bom 
on,  the  estate,  and  lived  for  thirty  years  under  that  roof     He 


'  v^^^V^iPP-" 


M8 


THK     MONOTONH. 


if 


»» 
,(1. 


was  a  wortliy,  pious  man,  and  during  my  lonjr,  lodions  illnem 
we  contracted  a  mutual  friendship  whicrh  lasted  to  the  close  of 
his  life.  Had  it  not  l»epn  for  the  care  and  attention  of  tliose 
excellent  women  and  honest  Dan,  I  might  never  have  lived  to 
be  the  chronicler  of  these  adventures. 

As  I  recovered  strengh,  Simpson  informed  me  that  the  game- 
keeper had  witnessed  from  behind  the  hedge  my  encounter  with 
Theophilus,  and  prevented  further  mischief  by  bursting  suddenly 
upon  my  adversary,  who  had  the  dastardly  meaness  to  give  me 
oeTcral  blows  after  I  was  insensible. 

Theophilus  left  his  victim  with  savage  reluctance.  The  game- 
keeper,  thought  at  first,  that  I  was  dead,  and  he  told  him  that 
he  had  better  be  off,  or  he  would  inform  against  him,  and  have 
him  convicted  for  murder.  This  hint  was  enough,  and  Theophi- 
lus lost  no  time  in  quitting  the  neighborhood. 

I  had  fallen  with  the  back  of  my  head  against  the  trunk  of  a 
large  elm  tree,  which  had  caused  concussion  of  the  brain. 

"  You  must  be  quite  still,  sir,  and  talk  as  little  as  possible, 
or  'twill  bo  bad  for  you,"  said  Simpson.  "  An  the  ladies  must 
come  near  you  as  seldom  as  they  can.  We  may  manage  to 
keep  you  silent,  sir,  but  I'll  be  dashed,  if  it  be  possible  to  keep 
women's  tongues  from  wagging.  They  will  talk— no  matter  the 
danger  to  themselves  or  others  ;  an'  'tis  'most  impossible  for  a 
man  not  to  listen  to  them.  They  be  so  good  and  pretty.  I'd 
advise  you,  Master  Geoffrey,  to  shut  your  eyes,  when  our  young 
lady  comes  in  with  the  mistress  to  see  you,  an'  then  you'll  no  be 
tempted  to  open  your  ears." 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  wholesome  truth  in  honest  Dan's 
advice,  but  I  lacked  the  resolution  to  adopt  it.  My  eyes  and 
ears  were  always  wide  open  when  my  fair  nurse  and  her  aunt 
approached  ray  bed  side. 

It  was  delightful  to  me,  to  listen  to  the  soft  tones  of  Kate 
Lee's  musical  voice,  when  her  sweet  fair  face  was  bending  over 


t 
f 
I 
1 
c 

I 
t 
tt 
fa 

ii 
it 
b 

a 
a 

V( 

til 
B 

fn 

St; 

vii 
mi 


rlintiR  illnen 
tho  close  of 
tioii  of  tlione 
ave  lived  to 

at  the  game- 
counter  with 
jng  suddenly 
38  to  gire  me 

The  game- 
)ld  him  that 
im,  and  hare 
and  Theophi- 

)p  trunk  of  a 

brain. 

p  as  possible, 

ladies  must 
manage  to 
sible  to  keep 
10  matter  the 
lossible  for  a 

pretty.  I'd 
m  our  young 

yon'U  DO  be 

lonest  Dan's 
lly  eyes  and 
nd  her  aunt 

nes  of  Kate 
tending  over 


THE     HUNCTUNS, 


Ml 


me,  and  fihe  inquired  in  such  an  earnest  and  tender  manner,  bow 
I  wii8,  and  liuw  I  had  passed  the  iiJKlit  ?'/ 

"  Always  the  better  for  seeing  and  liraring  you,  charmin;^ 
Kuto,  I  would  have  answerttd  hud  I  dured." 

One  afternoon,  Kate  was  absent,  and  tho  dear  old  lady,  her 
good  aunt  came  to  sit  with  nic,  and  read  to  mo  while  she  was 
away.  It  was  always  good  pious  books  siin  read,  and  I  tried  to 
feel  interested  ;  but  they  wore  dull,  and  if  they  failed  to  convert 
me,  they  never  faile<l  in  putting  me  to  sleep.  Knowing  the  result,  ' 
I  always  listened  patiently,  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  was 
certain  to  obtain  my  reward. 

"  I  have  no  doubt,  that  the  soporific  quality  of  these  sermons, 
by  quieting  my  mind  and  producing  wholesome  repose,  did  more 
to  enhance  my  recovery,  than  all  tho  lotions  and  medicines 
admiuistercd  by  the  family  physician — who  was  another  worthy 
but  exceedingly  prosy  individual." 

It  so  happened  that  this  afternoon  my  kind  old  friend  was 
inclined  for  a  chat.  She  sat  down  near  my  i)ed,  and  after  feel- 
ing my  pulse,  and  telling  we  that  1  was  going  ou  nicely — she 
began  to  talk  over  my  late  misadventure. 

"It  is  a  mercy  that  your  Hfe  was  spared,  Geoffrey.  Who 
could  have  imagined  that  your  cousin,  with  his  smooth  courteous 
manners  and  silken  voice  was  such  a  ruffian.'' 

"The  snake  is  beautiful  and  graceful,"  said  1,  "yet  the 
venom  it  conceals  produces  death.  Thcophilus  has  many  quali- 
ties in  common  with  tho  reptile.  Smooth,  insidious,  and  deadly. 
He  always  strikes  to  kill." 

His  encounter  with  you,  Geoffrey,  iias  removed  every  doubt 
from  our  minds,  as  to  bis  real  character  and  the  truth  of  your 
statements.  1  cannot  think  without  a  shudder,  of  the  bare 
possibility  of  my  amiable  Kate  becoming  the  wife  of  such  a 
villain." 

"  Could  Miss  Lee  really  entertain  the  least  regard  for  such  • 
man,"  I  cried,  indignant  ut  the  bare  supposition. 

IH 


•^^^f^mmmr- 


ato 


TMr    Mn.vurnNM. 


"  Himh,  OuoiTn'y.  You  muot  not  mlk  nboro  n  whisper.  Yoa 
know  Dr.  Liiko  Iiiih  forbidden  you  to  do  that." 

"  Kute  never  loved  TheophiluH.  She  might,  howevor,  huva 
yielded  to  my  earnest  Imprtunities  for  her  to  become  his  wile. 
Mr.  Moncton  ts  her  guardian,  and  some  difflcultios  attend  the 
settlement  of  her  property,  which  this  union,  would  in  uU  proba- 
bility have  removed.  You  know  the  manner  in  which  lawyers 
Put  out  work  for  themselves,  Mr.  Moncton.  I  hovo  no  doubt,  it 
is  the  only  real  obstacle  in  the  way." 

"  More  than  iirohable,"  whispered  I,  for  I  wanted  the  old  lady 
to  go  on  talking  about  Katej  "  but,  dear  Mrs.  Hepburn,  I  have 
a  perfect  horror  of  these  morriages  without  affection  ;  they 
seldom  turn  out  well.  Poor  as  I  am  I  would  never  sacrifice  the 
hoppiness  of  a  whole  life  by  contracting  such  a  marriage." 

"  Young  people  always  think  so,  but  a  few  years  produce  a 
great  change  in  their  sentiments.  I  am  always  sorry  when  I 
hear  of  a  young  man  or  woman  being  desperately  in  love,  for  it 
generally  ends  in  di8a|)pointraent.  A  heavy  trial  of  this  kind— 
tt  most  unfortunate  engagement  in  early  youth,  has  rendered  poor 
Catharine  indifferent  to  the  voice  of  love." 

I  felt  humbled  and  mortified  by  this  speech.  I  turned  upon 
my  pillow  to  conceal  my  face  from  my  kind  nurse.  Good 
heavens  !  Could  it  be  true,  that  I  had  only  loved  the  phantom 
of  a  dream — had  followed  for  so  many  weary  months  a  creature 
of  imagination— a  woman  who  had  no  heart  to  bestow  upon  her 
humble  worshipper  ?  • 

I  had  flattered  myself  that  I  was  not  indifferent  to  Miss  Lee : 
had  even  dared  to  hope  that  she  loved  me. 

What  visions  of  future  happiness  in  store  for  me,  had  these 
presumptuous  hopes  foretold.  What  stately  castles  had  I  not 
erected  upon  this  sandy  foundation,  which  I  was  now  doomed  to 
see  perish,  as  it  were  within  my  grasp  ? 

My  bosom  heaved,  and  my  eyes  became  dim,  bat  I  proudly 
■truggled  with  my  fielin!r<.  find  turning  to  Mrs.  Hepbom,   I 


!»( 
foi 
po 

am 
tiu 

lef 

to 

lov 

] 
anc 
not 
to 
de\ 
wh< 
shij 
for 
phi 

J 
by 
you 

I 
ed 
hall 

ceri 

<i 

Ih< 
pref 
Arc 
1 
thoi 


THE     M  0  N  ('  T  O  N  ■  . 


Ml 


hispcr.   Yoa 

jwuTor,  tiHve 
>nio  his  wiie. 
I  attend  the 

in  uil  probu- 
hicb  lawyerM 

no  doubt,  it 

tho  old  lady 
burn,  I  havH 
ctioQ  ;    tlioy 

sacrifice  tho 
rriage." 
8  produce  it 
)rry  when  I 
n  love,  for  it 

this  kind — 
jndered  poor 

turned  upon 
urse.  Good 
the  phantuiu 
IS  a  creature 
ow  upon  her 

0  Miss  Lee : 

e,  had  these 
IS  had  I  not 
V  doomed  to 

t  I  proudly 
Hepburn,  I 


inquired  with  apparent  culiuness,  "  If  any  lettord  liad  urrlvud 
fur  mvV  tiliu  Huid  she  did  not  Itnuw,  but  v  oiild  Huiid  to  tt>o 
puHt-uQiee  and  inciuire. 

I  tlion,  by  mere  chance,  romenUw^rod  tho  iminu  tluit  Sir  Alex- 
ander had  bi'Htoweil  upon  me,  and  told  SiinpHun,  wlio  hud  Just 
tlit'u  ciittTt'd,  to  uHk  for  lettern  for  Mr.  Tromiiin. 

i  felt  rcHtluNA  and  unhappy,  and  foignud  sleep,  in  order  to  be 
left  olone — and  wlit-n  alone,  if  a  few  tears  did  come  to  my  relief 
to  cool  the  fever  in  my  heart  and  bruin,  tlie  reader  who  has  ever 
loved  will  excuse  tho  weuknesH. 

I  could  not  forgive  my  charming  Kate,  for  having  loved 
another,  when  I  felt  that  she  ought  to  ha7e  loved  me.  Had  I 
not  saved  her  life  at  the  risk  of  my  own — had  I  not  been  true 
to  her  at  the  sacrifice  of  my  best  interests,  and  slighted  the  pure 
devoted  afiVction  of  Murgaretta  Monctou,  for  the  love  of  one 
who  loved  me  not — who  never  had  loved  me,  though  I  had  wor- 
shipped  her  image  in  the  innermost  shrine  of  my  heart  7  Alas  I 
for  poor  human  nature :  this  severe  trial  was  more  than  my 
philosophy  could  bear. 

From  tliese  painful  and  mortifying  reflections  I  was  aroused 
by  the  light  step  of  the  bountiful  delinquent,  who,  radiant  in 
youta  and  loveliness,  entered  the  room. 

1  glanced  at  her  from  under  my  half-closed  eyelids.  1  regard* 
ed  her  as  a  fallen  angel.  She  had  dared  to  love  another,  and 
half  her  beauty  had  vanished. 

Slie  came  to  my  bed-side,  and  in  accents  of  the  tenderest  con 
corn,  inquired  after  my  health. 

"  What  have  yon  been  doing,  Geoffrey — not  talking  too  much 
I  hope  ?  Yon  look  ill  and  feverish.  See,  I  have  brought  you  • 
present — a  noseguy  of  wild  flowers,  gathered  in  the  woods. 
Are  they  not  beautiful  i" 

To  look  into  her  sweet  fac<^,  and  entertain  other  feelings  than 
those  of  respect  and  admiration,  was  impo.ssible.    I  took  the 


.^1 


»iNi|i..iM(MMWk' 


..._UI-..-J-i!— 1] L-^ 


29i 


T  H  K     Jl  O  N  C  T  (1  N  9  . 


flowers  from  the  delicate  white  baud  tliat  profered  tliem,  and 
tried  to  thank  her.  My  lips  quivered.  I  sighed  involuntarily, 
and  turned  aw£?, 

"  You  are  out  of  spirits,  GeofiFrey,  my  dear  friend,"  she  said, 
sitting  down  by  my  bed-side,  and  placing  her  finger  on  the  pulse 
of  the  emaciated  hand  that  lay  listlessly  on  the  coverlid  ;  "  you 
must  try  and  overcome  these  fits  of  depression  or  you  will  never 
get  well.  I  left  you  cheerful  and  hopeful.  My  dear  annt  has 
been  preaching  one  of  her  long  sermons,  and  that  has  made  yon 
nervous  and  melancholy." 

Another  deep  sigh  and  a  siiake  of  the  head — 1  could  neither 
look  at  her,  nor  trust  myself  to  speak. 

"  Your  long  confinement  in  this  dull  room  affects  your  mind, 
Geoffrey.  It  is  hard  to  be  debarred  the  glorious  air  of  heaven 
during  such  lovely  summer  weather.  But  cheer  up,  brave  heart, 
in  a  few  days,  the  doctor  says,  that  you  may  be  removed  into 
another  room;  from  the  windows  you  will  enjoy  a  delightful 
prospect,  and  watch  the  sun  set  every  evening  behind  the  pur- 
ple hills." 

"You  and  your  kind  aunt  are  too  good  to  me.  Miss  Lee. 
To  one  in  my  unfortunate  circumstances,  it  would  have  been 
better  for  me  had  I  died." 

"For  shame,  Geoffrey.  Such  sentiments  are  unworthy  of 
you — are  ungrateful  to  the  merciful  Father  who  saved  you  from 
destruction." 

"  Why,  what  inducements  have  I  to  live  ?" 
"  Many  ;  if  it  be  only  to  improve  the  talents  that  God  has 
committed  to  your  keeping.  For  this  end  your  life  has  been 
spared,  and  the  heavier  will  be  your  amount  of  guilt,  if  you  neg- 
lect so  great  salvation.  God  has  permitted  you  to  assert  your 
innocence — to  triumph  over  your  enemy  ;  has  saved  you  from 
the  premeditated  malice  of  that  enemy  ;  and  do  you  feel  no 
gratitude  to  Him  for  such  signal  mercies  ?" 


tl 

ft] 


ofered  tlieni,  and 
bed  involuntarily, 

friend,"  she  said, 
inger  on  the  pulae 
le  coverlid  ;  "  you 
or  you  will  never 
My  dear  aunt  has 
hat  has  made  you 

— 1  could  neither 

.ffects  your  mind, 
JUS  air  of  heaven 

up,  brave  heart, 
be  removed  into 
njoy  a  delightful 

behind  the  pur- 

}  me.  Miss  Lee. 
irould  have  been 

ire  unworthy  of 
)  saved  you  from 


its  that  God  has 
ar  life  has  been 
2[uilt,  if  you  neg- 
lu  to  assert  your 
saved  you  from 
do  you  feel  no 


THB     UOXCTONS, 


29a 


Indeed  I  have  not  thought  of  my  preservatiou  in  this  way 
before,  nor  have  I  been  so  grateful  as  I  ought  to  have  been.  I 
have  suffered  human  passions  and  affections  to  stand  betweei. 
me  and  heaven." 

"We  are  all  too  prone  to  do  that,  Geoffrey.  The  mind,  in 
Its  natural  and  unconverted  state,  cannot  comprehend  the 
tender  mercies  of  the  Creator.  Human  nature  is  so  selfish,  left 
to  its  own  guidance,  that  it  needs  tht  purifying  influences  of 
religion  to  lift  the  soul  from  grovelling  in  the  dust.  I  am  no 
bigot— no  disputer  about  creeds  and  forms  of  worship,  but  I 
know  that  without  God,  no  one  can  be  happy  or  contented  iu 
any  station  of  life,  or  under  any  circumstances." 

Seeing  that  I  did  not  answer,  she  released  the  hand  that  she 
had  retained  within  her  own,  and  said  very  gently : 

"Forgive  me,  Geoffrey,  if  I  have  wounded  your  feelings." 
"  Go  on— go  on.    I  could  hear  you  talk  for  ever,  dear  Miss 
Lee." 

"  You  have  grown  very  formal,  Geoffrey— why  Miss  Lee  f 
During  your  illness,  I  have  been  simple  Kate." 

"  But  I  am  getting  well  now,"  and  I  tried  to  smile  ;  my  heart 
was  too  sore.  "Oh,  Catherine,"  I  cried,  "forgive  my  way- 
wardness, for  I  am  very  unhappy." 

"  You  have  been  placed  in  very  trying  circumstances,  but  I 
feel  an  inward  conviction  that  you  will  overcome  them  all." 

"  My  grief  has  nothing  fo  do  with  that,"  I  said,  looking  at 
her  very  earnestly, 

I  read  in  her  countenance  pity  and  surprise,  but  no  tenderer, 
emotion. 

"  May  I— dare  I,  dearest  Catherine,  unburden  my  heart  to 
you  ?" 

"  Speak  freely  and  candidly,  Geoffrey.  If  I  cannot  remove 
the  cause  of  your  distress,  you  may  be  certain  of  my  advice  and 
sympathy." 


1^ 


""^^vnanqn* 


S94 


TH  K      Jl  O  .'  CT  0  K  B. 


m 


\'.- 
f! 


"  Heaveu  bless  you  for  tlmt  I"  I  murmured,  kissing  the  baud 
which  disengaged  itself  gently  from  my  grasp,  and  with  a  color 
somewhat  heightened,  Cutherine  bent  towards  me  in  a  listening 
attitude. 

The  ice  once  broken,  I  determined  to  tell  her  all ;  and  in  low 
and  broken  accents  I  proceeded  to  inform  her  of  my  boyish 
attachment,  and  the  fond  hopes  I  had  dared  to  entertain,  from 
the  kind  and  flattering  manner  in  which  she  had  returned  my 
attentions  at  Mr.  Moncton's,  and  of  the  utter  annihilation  of 
these  ardently  cherished  hopes,  when  informed  by  Mrs.  Hepburn 
that  afternoon,  that  her  aflfections  had  been  bestowed  upon  some 
more  fortunate  person. 

During  my  incoherent  confession,  Miss  Lee  was  greatly 
agitated. 

Her  face  was  tnrued  from  me,  bnt  from  the  listless  attitude 
of  her  figure,  and  the  motionless  repose  of  the  white  hand  that 
fell  over  the  arm  of  the  chair  in  which  she  was  seated,  I  saw 
that  she  was  weeping. 

Then  came  a  long,  painful  pause.  Catherine  at  length  wiped 
away  her  tears,  and  broke  the  oppressive  silence. 

"QeoflTrey,"  she  said,  solemnly,  "I  have  been  to  blame  in 
this.  At  the  time  you  saved  my  life  (a  service  for  which  I  can 
never  feel  suflSciently  grateful,  for  I  value  life  and  all  its  mercies) 
I  was  young  and  happy,  engaged  to  one,  who  in  many  respects, 
though  older  by  some  years,  resembled  yourself. 

"When  I  met  you  the  second  time  at  your  uncle's,  disap- 
pointment had  flung  a  baleful  shade  over  my  first  fond  anticipa- 
tions of  life  ;  but,  young  and  sanguine,  I  still  hoped  for  the  best 

"  By  some  strange  coincidence,  your  voice  and  manner  greatly 
resembled  those  of  the  man  I  loved,  and  whom  I  still  fondly 
hoped  to  meet  again.  This  circumstance  attracted  me  towards 
yon,  and  I  felt  great  pleasure  in  conversing  with  you,  as  every 
look  and  tone  reminded  me  of  him.    This,  doubtless,  gave  rise 


to 
m< 
nr 


M( 

th( 

Th 
aln 


in 
bet 
syn 
hav 

be  1 

ii 

ben 

it  ii 

sucl 

A 

by  I 

Los( 
II 

"ni' 


arc 

Lsui 

lliro 


*ik. 


TH  B     UONCTONS. 


39,*: 


ising  the  baud 

d  with  a  color 

in  a  listening 

1 ;  and  in  low 
of  my  boyish 
ntertain,  fruin 
1  returned  my 
nnihilation  of 
Mrs.  Hepburn 
red  upon  some 

was    greatly 

stless  attitude 

lite  hand  that 

seated,  I  saw 

t  length  wiped 

3  to  blame  in 
at  which  I  can 
all  its  mercies) 
mauy  respects, 

uncle's,  disap- 
;  fond  anticipa- 
id  for  the  best 
nauner  gready 
I  still  fondly 
3d  me  towards 
I  you,  as  every 
tless,  gave  rise 


to  the  attacliment  you  have  just  revealed  to  me,  and  which  I 

must  unceasingly  lament,  as  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  make  yoa 

any  adequate  return." 
"  And  is  my  rival  still  dear  to  yon,  Miss  Lee  ?» 
Her  lips  again  quivered,  and  she  turned  weeping  away. 
"  I  read  my  fate  in  yonr  silence.     Yon  love  liim  yet  ?" 
"  And  shall  continue  to  love  him  whilst  I  have  life,  Geoffrey 

Moncton,-'  slowly  and  snffocatingly  broke  from  the  pale  lips  of 

the  trembling  girl, 

"  And  you  wouhl  have  been  persuaded^  by  your  aunt  to  marry 
Theophilus  Moucton  ?" 

"  Never  I  Who  told  you  that  ?"  and  her  eye  flashed  proudly 
almost  scornfully  upon  me."  ' 

"  Your  good  aunt." 

"  She  knows  nothing  ^bout  it.  I  ceased  to  oppose  her  wishes 
ni  words,  because  I  found  that  it  might  produce  a  rupture 
between  ns.  Women  of  my  aunt's  age,  have  outlived  their 
sympathies  in  affairs  of  the  heart.  What  they  once  felt  they 
have  forgotten,  or  look  upon  as  a  weakness  which  ought  not  to 
be  tolerated  in  their  conversations  with  the  voung. 

"  But  look  at  that  fine  candid  face,  Geoffrey  ;  that  open 
benevolent  brow,  and  tell  me,  if  having  once  loved  the  origmal, 
it  is  mch  an  easy  matter  to  forget  or  to  find  a  substitute  in 
such  a  Uiiife  as  Theophilus  Moncton." 

As  she  said  this  she  took  a  portrait  that  was  snspeiided 
by  a  gold  chain  from  the  inner  folds  which  covered  her  beautiful 
bosom,  and  placed  it  in  my  hand. 

"  Good  heavens  I"  I  cried,  sinking  bach  upon  the  pillow, 
"  my  friend,  Gtorge  Harrison  !" 
"  Who  ?  I  know  no  one  of  that  name." 
"  True— true.  George  Harrison— Philip  Mornington— they 
arc  one  and  the  same.  And  his  adored  and  lost  Charlotte 
Liiiirie,  and  my  beautiful  Catherine  Lee  are  identified  I  see 
iLrongh  it  now.    He  hid  the  truth  from  me,  fearing  that  it 


■i 


3S' 


1- 
If 


%i 


396 


THR     MONCTONS. 


might  destroy  our  friendship.     Honesty  in  this,  as  in  all  other 
cases,  would  have  been  the  best  policy." 

"  Philip  is  still  alive  I  Not  hearing  of  him  for  so  man; 
mouths  made  me  conclude  that  ho  was  either  dead  or  had  left 
England  in  disgust." 

"  He  still  lives,  and  loves  you,  Kate,  with  all  the  fervor  of  a 
first  attachment." 

"I  do  not  deserve  it,  Geoflfrey.  I  dared  to  mistrust  his 
honor,  to  listen  to  base  calumnies  propagated  by  Theophilus 
and  his  father,  purposely,  I  now  believe,  to  injure  him  iu  my 
estimation.  But  what  young  girl,  ignorant  of  the  world  and 
the  ways  of  designing  men,  could  suspect  such  a  grave,  plausible 
man  as  Robert  Moncton,  who,  outwardly,  alwajj  manifested  the 
most  affectionate  interest  in  my  happiness.  I  u  ^h  fear  that 
my  coldness  had  a  very  bad  effect  upon  Philip's  character,  and 
was  the  means  of  leading  him  into  excesses,  that  ultimately 
led  to  his  ruin." 

I  was  perplexed,  and  knew  not  what  answer  to  make,  for  she 
had  hit  upon  the  plain  truth.  To  tell  her  so,  was  to  plunge  an 
amiable  creature  into  the  deepest  affliction,  and  to  withhold  it 
was  not  doing  justice  to  the  friend,  whom,  above  all  of  his  sex, 
I  loved  and  valued. 

With  the  quick  eye  of  love,  and  the  tact  of  woman,  Kate 
perceived  my  confusion,  and  guessed  the  cause;  she  broke  into  a 
fit  of  passionate  weeping. 

"  Dear  Kate,"  1  began,  with  difficulty  raising  myself  on  the 
pillow,  "  control  this  violeac  emotion  and  I  will  tell  you  all  I 
know  of  my  friend." 

She  looked  eagerly  up  through  her  tears  ;  but  the  task  I  bad 
imposed  upon  myself  was  beyond  my  strength  to  fulfill.  My 
nerves  were  so  completely  shattered  by  the  agitating  effects  of 
the  past  8f;ene,  that  I  sank  back  exhausted  and  gasping  on  the 
pillow. 

"  Not  now— not  now,  Geoffrey,  yon  are  unequal  to  the  task. 


1 


I 


Th 
h.-a 
ant 

8(0( 

clos 
on  I 

i 
hav 
in  n 
My 
I  cc 
brol 
reco 
that 

T 
this 
thou 

the  : 
are  < 
The 
too  I 
may 

throi 
for  a 

Tl 
My 
be  al 

A 


i 


,  as  in  all  other 

m  for  80  man; 
dcud  or  had  left 

the  fervor  of  a 

to  mistrust  his 

by  Theophilus 

jure  him  iu  my 

the  world  and 

grave,  plausible 

:  manifested  the 

u    ^h  fear  that 

character,  and 

that  ultimately 

0  make,  for  she 

as  to  plunge  an 

to  withhold  it 

all  of  his  sex, 

r  woman,  Kate 
he  broke  into  a 

myself  on  the 
tell  you  all  I 

the  task  I  bad 
to  fulfill.  My 
iting  effects  of 
gasping  on  the 

al  to  the  task. 


THK     UONOTONS, 


207 


This  conversation  has  tried  you  too  much."  And  raisins  ni} 
hiad  upoD  her  arm,  she  bathed  my  temples  with  eau  de  Coloijiic, 
and  hastened  to  administer  a  restorative  from  the  phial  that 
siood  on  the  talde. 

"  J  shall  be  better  now  I  know  the  worst,"  I  said  ;  and 
closing  my  eyes  for  a  few  moments,  my  head  rested  passively 
on  her  snow-wiiite  shoulder. 

A  few  hours  back,  and  the  touch  of  those  fair  hands  would 
have  thrilled  my  whole  frame  with  delight  ;  but  now  it  awoke 
in  me  little  or  no  emotion.  The  beautiful  dream  had  vanished. 
My  adored  Catherine  Lee  was  the  betrothed  of  my  friend  ;  and 
1  could  gaze  upon  her  pale  agitated  face  with  calmness— with 
brotherly,  platonic  love.  I  was  only  now  anxious  to  effect  a 
reconciliation  between  George  and  his  Kate,  and  I  rejoiced 
that  the  means  were  in  all  probability  in  my  power. 

The  entrance  of  Mrs.  Hepburn  with  letters,  put  an  end  to 
this  painful  scene  ;  while  their  contents  gave  rise  to  other 
thoughts  dnd  feelings,  hopes  and  fears. 

'  I  cannot  read  them  yet,"  I  said,  after  having  examined 
the  iiaiidwriting  in  which  the  letters  were  directed.  "  My  eyes 
arc  dim.  I  am  too  weak.  The  rest  of  an  hour  will  restore  me. 
The  sight  of  these  letters  makes  me  nervous,  and  agitates  me 
too  much.  Tliey  are  from  Sir  Alexander  and  his  daughter,  and 
may  contain  important  tidings." 

"  Let  us  go,  dear  aunt,"  whispered  Kate,  slipping  her  arm 
through  Mrs.  Hepburn's.  "  It  will  be  better  to  leave  Geoffrey 
for  awhile  alone." 

They  left  the  room  instantly.     I  was  relieved  by  their  absence. 
My  heart  was  oppressed  with  painful  thoughts.     I  wanted  to 
be  alone— to  commune  with  my  own  spirit,  and  be  still. 
A  few  minutes  had  scarcely  elapsed,  and  I  was  sound  asleep. 


13* 


198 


TH  ■     MONOTONS 


CHAPTER    XXVIII 


UY      LBTTBBS 


Day  was  waning  into  night,  when  I  again  unclosed  iny  eyes. 
A  sober  calm  had  succeeded  the  burning  agitation  of  the  pre* 
vious  hours.  I  was  no  longer  a  lover — or  at  least  the  lover  of 
Catherine  Lee.  My  thoughts  had  returned  to  Moncton  Purk, 
and  in  dreams  the  fairy  figure  of  Margaret  had  Qitted  beside 
me,  through  its  green  arcades. 

My  heart  was  free  to  love  her  who  so  loved  me,  and  by  the  light 
of  the  lamp  I  eagerly  opened  up  the  tetters,  which  I  had  grasped 
during  my  slumbers  tightly  in  my  hand. 

But  before  I  could  decipher  a  line,  my  worthy  friend  Duu 
came  to  the  rescue. 

"  I  cannot  permit  that,  master  Geoffrey — your  eyes  arc  too 
weak  to  read  such  fine  penmanship." 

"  My  good  fellow,  only  a  few  lines.  Yon  must  allow  me  to  do 
that" 

"  Not  a  word.  What  is  the  use  of  all  this  nursing  if  you 
will  have  your  own  way  7  You  will  be  dead  at  this  rate  in  less 
than  a  week." 

"  What  a  deal  of  trouble  that  would  save  yon,^  said  I,  lodk* 
ing  at  him  reproachfully. 

"Who  called  it  trouble?  not  I,"  said  honest  Dan.  "The 
trouble  is  a  pleasure  if  yon  will  only  be  tractable  and  obey  those 
who  mean  you  well.  Now  don't  you  see  what  comes  of  acting 
•gainst  reason  and  common  sense.    You  would  talk  to  the  mia- 


trei 

doc 

con 

out 

yon 

nigl 

set 
it 

uo  1 

nom 
inve 
how 
by  G 
that 


oftei 
in  a 
that 

F»g« 

II 

Dan 

ingi 

impi 

II 

into 
attfa 
a  tei 

it  foi 

II 

Bee, 
lady 


•ri*='(s#A:3'<r  "' 


inclosed  my  eyes. 
tatioD  of  the  pre* 
east  the  lover  of 
o  Moncton  Purk, 
lad  Qitted  beside 

e,  and  bythe  ligbl 
ich  I  had  grasped 

ortby  frieud  Duit 

our  eyes  aro  too 

ist  allow  me  to  do 

is  nursing  if  you 
it  this  rate  in  less 

^OD,^  said  I,  lodk* 

test  Dan.  "The 
>le  and  obey  those 
t  comes  of  acting 
Id  talk  to  the  mis' 


1 


THK     MOWOTONS. 


i9f 


tress  the  whole  blessed  afternoon.  Several  times  I  came  to  the 
door,  and  it  was  still  talk,  talk,  talk— and  when  my  young  lady 
comes  home  and  the  old  mistress  was  fairly  tired,  and  walked 
oat  to  give  her  tongue  a  rest,  it  was  still  the  same  with  the 
young  one— talk,  talk,  talk,  and  no  end  to  the  talk,  till  you  well 
nigh  fainted  ;  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  God's  Providence  that 
set  you  off  fast  asleep,  you  might  have  died  of  the  talk  fever." 

"  But  I  am  better  now,  Daniel— yon  see  the  talking  did  me 
uo  harm,  but  good." 

"  Tout,  tout,  man,  a  bad  excuse,  you  know,  is  better  than 
none  they  say.  But  I  think  it's  far  worse,  for  'tis  generally  an 
invented  lie,  just  to  cheat  the  Devil  or  one's  own  conscience  ; 
howsomever,  I  doubt  much,  whether  the  Devil  was  ever  cheated 
by  such  practices,  but  did  not  always  win  in  the  long  run  by 
that  sort  of  stale  male." 
"  Are  you  a  chess  player  ?"  I  asked  in  some  surprise. 
"Ay, just  in  a  small  way.  Old  Jenkiuw  the  butler  aud  I, 
often  have  a  tuzzle  together  iu  his  pantry,  which  sometimes  ends 
in  a  tiaU  mate— he,  he,  he— Jenkins  who  is  a  dry  stick,  says, 
that  a  stale  mate,  is  better  than  stale  fish,  or  a  glass  of  flat  cham- 
pagne—he, he,  he." 

"  I  perfectly  agree  with  Jenkins.  But  don't  you  see,  my  good 
Daniel,  that  you  blame  me  for  talking  with  the  ladies,  and  want- 
ing to  read  a  love-letter  ;  while  you  are  making  me  act  quite  as 
imprudently,  by  laughing  and  talking  with  you." 

"  A  love-letter  did  you  say  ?"  and  he  poked  his  long  nose  nearly 
into  my  face,  and  squinted  down  with  a  glance  of  intense  curiosity 
at  the  open  letter  I  Jtill  held  in  my  baud.  "  Why  that  is  rather 
a  temptation  to  a  young  gentleman,  I  must  own  ;  cannot  I  read 
it  for  yon,  sir  ?  I  am  as  good  a  scholar  as  our  clerk." 

"  I  don't  at  all  doubt  your  capabilities,  Simpson.     But  yoa 
see,  this  is  a  thing  I  really  can  only  do  for  myself.    The  young 
lady  would  nut  like  her  letter  to  be  made  public." 
"  Why,  Lord,  sir,  yoa  don't  imagiue  that  I  would  say  a  word 


'rp:59»r 


^B^JflJfl 


300 


THE     UUNCT0N8. 


'i' 


N^ 


about  it.  I  have  kept  secrets  bof«tre  now — ay,  and  ladies' 
secrets,  too.  I  was  tlie  man  that  lielped  your  father  to  carry 
otf  Miss  Ellen.  It  was  I  hold  the  horses  at  the  comer  of  the 
lane,  whik  he  took  her  out  of  tiie  eliamber  window.     I  drove 

them  to church  next  morning,  and  waited  at  the  doors  till 

they  were  married  ;  and  your  poor  father  gave  me  five  golden 
guineas  to  drink  the  bride's  health.  Ah  I  she  was  a  bride 
worth  the  winning — a  prettier  woman  I  never  saw — she  beat 
my  young  lady  hollow — though  some  folks  do  think  Miss  Cathe- 
rine a  beauty." 

"  You  did  not  witness  the  ceremony  ?"' 

"  No,  sir  ;  but  as  I  sat  on  the  box  of  the  carriage,  I  saw  old 
Parson  Roche  go  up  to  the  aisle  in  his  white  gown^  with  a  book 
in  his  hand,  and  if  it  were  not  to  marry  the  younjf  folks,  what 
business  had  he  there  ?" 

"  What,  indeed,"  thought  I.  "  This  man's  evidence  may  be 
of  great  value  to  me." 

I  lay  silent  for  some  minutes  thinking  over  these  circum- 
stances, and  quite  forgot  my  letter  until  reminded  of  it  by  Simpson. 

"  Well,  sir,  I'm  thinking  that  I  will  allow  you  to  read  that 
letter ;  if  you  will  just  put  on  my  spectacles  to  protect  your  eyes 
from  the  light." 

"  But  I  could  not  see  with  them,  Simpson ;  spectacles,  like 
wives,  seldom  suit  anybody  but  the  persons  to  whom  they 
belong.  Besides,  you  know,  that  old  eyes  and  young  eyes  never 
behold  the  same  objects  alike." 

"  Maybe,"  said  the  old  man,  "  But  do  just  wait  patiently 
until  I  can  prop  yon  up  in  the  bed,  and  put  the  lamp  near 
enough  for  yoi^to  see  that  small  writing.  Tzet,  tzet — what  a 
pity  it  is  that  young  ladies,  iiow-a-days,  are  ashamed  of  writing 
a  good,  legible  hand.  You  will  require  a  double  pair  of  specs 
to  read  yon." 

The  old  mail's  curiosity  was  almost  as  great  as  his  kindness  ;. 
and  I  shoniil  Imvp  felt  annoyed  nt  his  peeping  and  prying  over  my 


sb( 
oul 

to 
me 

'\ 
wej 
Ma 

"D 

not 

I-m 

in  V 

repc 
i< 

deat 
died 
to  I 
latte 
disct 

vorei 

poor 

nicat 

ment 

her  c 

to  di 

"J 

cums 
■I 

upon 
as  a  { 


TUB    MONCToNlt. 


80t 


ay,  and  ladies' 
father  to  carry 
le  comer  of  the 
idow.  I  drove 
It  the  doors  till 
me  five  goldeu 
te  was  a  bride 
saw — she  beat 
ink  Miss  Cathe- 


riage,  I  saw  old 
vn,  with  a  book 
ung  folks,  whHt 

vide  nee  may  be 

r  these  circum- 
»f  it  by  Simpson, 
to  read  that 
rotect  your  eyes 

spectacles,  like 
to  whom  they 
Dung  eyes  never 

wait  patiently 
the  lamp  near 
tzet — what  a 
imed  of  writing 
e  pair  of  specs 

IS  bis  kindness ;; 
)rying  over  my 


shoulder,  had  I  not  been  uerluiu  that  hu  cuuki  nul  decipher,  with* 
out  the  aid  of  the  said  spectacles,  a  single  word  of  the  contents. 

I  wus  getting-  tired  of  his  loquacity,  luid  was  at  last  obliged 
to  request  him  to  go,  which  ho  did  most  rcluciautly,  begging 
me  as  ho  left  the  room  to  have  mercy  on  my  poor  eyes. 

There  was  some  need  of  the  caution  ;  the  lever  had  left  me  so 
weak  tiiat  it  was  with  great  difficulty  I  succeeded  in  reading 
Margaretta's  letter. 

"  Dkar  Cousin  Geoffrey  : 

"  We  parted  with  an  assurance  of  mi^taal  friendship.  I  shall 
not  waste  words  in  apologizing  for  writing  to  you.  As  a  friend 
I  -may  continue  to  love  and  value  you,  convinced  that  the  heart 
in  which  I  trust  will  never  couderan  me  for  the  confidence  I 
repose  in  it. 

"  I  have  suffered  a  severe  affliction  since  you  left  as,  in  the 
death  of  poor  Alice,  which  took  place  a  fortnight  ago.  She 
died  in  a  very  unsatisfactory  frame  of  mind,  anxious  to  the  last 
to  behold  her  unprincipled  husband  or  Dinah  North.  The 
latter,  however,  has  disappeared,  and  no  trace  of  her  can  be 
discovered. 

"  There  was  some  secret,  perhaps  the  same  that  yon  endea* 
vored  so  fruitlessly  to  wrest  from  her,  that  lay  heavily  upon  the 
poor  girl's  conscience,  and  which  she  appeared  eager  to  commu- 
nicate after  the  power  of  utterance  had  fled.  The  repeated 
mention  of  her  brother's  name  during  the  day  which  preceded 
her  dissolution,  led  me  to  the  conclusion  that  whatever  she  had 
to  divulge  was  connected  with  him. 

"  Bat  she  in  gone,  and  the  secret  has  perished  with  her,  a  cir* 
cumstance  which  we  may  all  have  cause  to  regret 

"  And  this  is  the  first  time,  Geoffrey,  that  I  hare  looked 
upon  death — the  death  of  one,  whom  from  infancy  I  have  loved 
as  a  sister. 


..  H-  ■:-,!<'.   : 


it".  ,j* , 


SOS 


TBI     MONOTONI 


"  The  Bight  hM  filled  me  with  iwe  and  terror  ;  the  more  so, 
l>ecause  I  feel  a  strange  presentiment  that  my  own  end  is  not 
fur  distant. 

"  T hia,  my  dear  cousin,  you  will  say  is  the  natural  result  of 
watching  the  decay  of  one  so  young  and  beautiful  ns  Alice 
Murningtcn — one,  who,  a  few  brief  months  ago,  was  full  of  life, 
and  health,  and  hope — that  her  death  has  brought  more  forcibly 
before  me  the  prospect  of  my  own  mortality. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  so.  I  do  not  wish  to  die,  Qeoffrey  ;  life,  for 
me,  has  many  charms.  I  love  my  dear  father  tenderly.  To  his 
fond  eyes  I  am  the  light  of  life — the  sole  thing  that  remains  to 
him  of  my  mother.  I  would  live  .'or  his  sake  to  cherish  and 
comfort  him  in  his  old  age.  1  love  the  dear  old  homestead  with 
all  its  domestic  associations,  and  I  could  not  bid  adieu  to  you, 
my  dear  cousin,  without  keen  regret. 

"And  then,  the  glorious  face  of  nature  —  the  fields,  the 
flowers,  the  glad,  bright  sunbeams,  the  rejoiciug  song  of  birds, 
the  voice  of  waters,  the  whispered  melodies  of  wiud-stirred 
leaves,  the  green  solitudes  of  the  dim  mysterious  forest,  I  love — 
oh,  how  I  love  them  all  I 

"  Yes,  these  are  dear  to  my  heart  and  memory  ;  yet  I  wan* 
der  discontentedly  amid  my  favorite  haunts.  My  eyes  are  ever 
turned  to  the  earth.  A  spirit  seems  to  whisper  to  me  in  low 
tones,  '  Open  thy  arms,  mother,  to  receive  thy  child.' 

"  I  struggle  with  these  wakiug  phantasies  ;  my  eyes  are  fuU 
of  tears.  1  feel  the  want  of  companionship.  I  long  for  some 
friendly  bosom  to  share  my  grief  and  wipe  away  my  tears.  The 
sunshine  of  my  heart  has  vanished.  Ah,  my  dear  friend,  bow 
earnestly  I  long  for  your  return  I  Do  write,  and  let  us  know 
how  you  have  sped.  My  ;'uther  came  buck  to  the  Hall  the  day 
afier  the  funeral  of  poor  .Alice.  He  nuiivels  like  me  at  your 
long  silence.  He  has  important  news  to  communicate  which  I 
must  not  forestall 


f 


^W: 


•   li 

4.  I 
1 

beei 
thot 
ily 

The 
liittt 

Ufl'l'( 

1 

)iui:( 

Ullil 

uniu 

to  d 

tore 

Tl 

M 

Dun 

an  i 

of  w 

tenti 

favoi 
I) 

inqui 

the  c 

II 

each 
You 
self, 
my  f 


■Jpi'.T.f^JV,  i„»*C^ 


.  -  I 


f 


THE     M  0:{  UTO  .V  «. 


ao8 


■or  ;  the  more  ro, 
r  own  end  ia  not 

natural  result  of 
ettutiful  ns  Alice 
),  was  full  of  life, 
gilt  more  forcibly 

Jeoffrey  ;  life,  for 
tenderly.  To  hU 
(  that  remains  to 
e  to  cherish  and 
d  homestead  with 
bid  adieu  to  you, 

—  the  fields,  the 
ug  song-  of  birds, 
i  of  wiad-stirred 
IS  forest,  I  love — 

aory  ;  yet  I  wan* 
My  eyes  are  ever 
>er  to  me  in  low 
child/ 

my  eyes  are  full 

I  lung  for  some 

y  my  tears.    The 

dear  friend,  how 

and  let  as  know 

the  Hall  the  day 

like  me  at  yoar 

muiiicate  which  I 


"  Write  soon,  and  let  ns  know  that  yoo  are  well  and  happy  ; 
a  line  from  you  will  cheer  my  drooping  heart. 

*'  Yours,  in  the  sincerity  of  love, 

"  MARUARnTA  MoNCTON. 
•'  MoKOToit  Pin,  July  n,  It—." 

I  read  this  letter  over  several  times,  until  the  characters 
became  misty,  and  I  could  no  longer  form  them  into  words.  A 
thousand  times,  I  pressed  it  to  my  lips  and  vowed  eteriial  fidel- 
ity to  the  dear  writer.  Yet— what  a  mournful  tuie  it  told. 
The  love  but  halfconcealed,  wos  apparent  in  every  lino.  I  felt 
bitterly,  that  I  was  the  cause  of  her  dejection— thot  hopeless 
nfl'i'C'tion  for  me  was  undermining  her  health. 

I  would  write  to  her  instantly— would  tell  her  all.  Alas,  my 
liuiid,  unnerved  by  long  illness,  could  mo  longer  guide  the  pen— 
uiiil  how  could  I  employ  the  hand  of  another  ?  I  cursed  my 
unlucky  accident,  and  the  unworthy  cause  of  it ;  and  in  order 
to  divert  my  thoughts  from  this  melancholy  subject,  I  eagerly 
tore  open  Sir  Alexander's  letter. 

The  paper  fell  from  my  grasp,  I  was  not  able  to  read. 

Mrs.  Hepburn  npfwared  like  a  good  angel,  followed  by  honest 
Dan,  bearing  candles,  and  the  most  refreshing  of  all  viands  to 
nn  invalid,— a  delicious  cup  of  fragrant  tea,  the  very  sinull 
of  which  was  reviving  ;  and  whilst  deliberately  sipping  the  con- 
tents  of  my  second  cup,  I  requested  Mrs.  Hepburn,  as  a  great 
fovor,  to  read  to  me  Sir  Alexander's  letter. 

"  Perhaps  it  may  contain  family  secrets  ?"  she  said,  with  an 
inquiring  look,  whilst  her  hand  rested  rather  tenaciously  upon 
the  closely  written  sheets. 

"After  the  confidence  which  we  have  mutually  reposed  in 
each  other,  my  dear  Madam,  I  can  have  no  secret  to  conceal. 
You  ore  acquainted  with  my  private  history,  and  I  flatter  my- 
self,  that  neither  you  nor  your  amiable  niece,  are  indifierent  to 
my  future  welfare." 


L^ 


''^'H 


804 


THK      MUNCTONi. 


t 


"  You  only  do  im  justice,  Geoffrey,"  Buid  the  kind  woman, 
affoctionatcly  pressing  my  hund,  after  rcadjaBting  my  pillows. 
"  I  love  you  for  your  mother's  sake,  i  prize  you  for  your  own  ; 
and  I  hope  you  will  allow  me  to  consider  you  in  the  light  of 
that  son,  of  whom  Heaven  early  deprived  me." 

"  You  make  a  rich  man  of  me  at  once,"  I  cried,  respectfully 
kissing  her  hand.  How  can  I  be  poor  while  I  po-ssess  so  many 
excellent  friends.  Robert  Moncton,  with  all  his  wealth,  is  ft 
beggar,  when  compared  to  the  hiterto  despised  Geoflrey." 

"  Well,  let  us  leave  off  complimenting  each  other,"  said  Mrs. 
Hepburn,  laughing  ;  "  and  please  to  lie  down  like  a  good  boy 
and  compose  yourself,  and  listen  attentively  to  what  your  uncle 
has  to  say  to  you." 

"  My  Dear  Geoff  : — 

"  What  the  deuce,  man,  has  happened  to  you,  that  we 
have  received  no  tidings  from  you.  Have  you  and  old  Dinah 
eloped  tO{5ether  on  the  back  of  a  broomstick.  The  old  hag's 
disappearance  looks  rather  suspicious.  Madge  does  little  else 
than  pine  and  fret  for  your  return.  I  begin  to  feel  quite  jealous 
of  you  in  that  quarter. 

"  I  have  a  long  tale  to  tell  you,  and  scarce  '  low  where  to 
begin.  i'Jext  to  taking  doctor's  stuff,  I  detest  letter  writing, 
and  were  you  not  a  great  favorite,  the  pens,  ink  and  paper  might 
go  to  the  bottom  of  the  river,  before  I  would  employ  them  to 
communicate  a  single  thought. 

"  I  had  a  very  pleasant  journey  to  London,  which  terminated 
in  a  very  unpleasant  visit  to  your  vortky  uncle.  It  was  not 
without  great  repugnance  that  I  condescended  to  enter  the 
villain's  house,  particularly  when  I  reflected  on  the  errand  which 
took  me  there. 
'  "  He  received  me  with  one  of  his  blandest  smiles,  and  inquired 


uftei 

have 

iiistc 
•I 

very 
shori 
lit  a 
lion. 


(ini  II 

area 

l>urp' 

in  vj 

iiduii 
.1 1 

for  y 
.sion 
to  g( 
does 

"1 

ventu 

•I  > 

heart 
iiiou}; 
one,  V 
Theoj 

iibout 
.siircat 
disiint 
"I 
felt  a 


':■.:&' 


r  H  K      M  O  N  C  T  0  N  ■  . 


306 


kind  woman, 

tny  pillows. 

» your  own  ; 

1  the  light  of 

I,  respectfully 
mess  so  many 
wealth,  U  a 
)ffr.7." 
it,"  Huid  Mrs. 
e  a  good  boy 
t  your  uncle 


yon,  that  we 
id  old  Dinub 
'lie  old  hag's 
es  little  else 
quite  jealous 

low  where  to 

tter  writing, 

paper  might 

ploy  them  to 

h  terminated 

It  was  not 

to  enter  the 

errand  which 

and  inqnired 


after  my  health  with  such  affectionate  hiteiest,  that  it  would 
have  led  a  stranger  to  imagine  that  ho  really  wislifd  mo  well, 
instead  of  occupying  a  sung  corner  In  the  family  vault. 

"  How  I  abhor  this  man's  hypocrisy.  Bud  ua  he  is— it  is  the 
v.'ry  worst  feature  in  his  character.  I  cut  all  his  compliments 
t^hort,  by  informing  him  that  the  object  of  my  visit  was  onu 
ot  a  very  unpleasant  nature,  that  required  his  immediate  atteu- 
tlun. 

"  Ue  looke<l  very  cold  and  spiteful. 

"  '  I  anticipate  your  business,'  ho  said  ;  '  Geoffrey  Moncton,  I 
am  informed,  has  found  an  asylum  with  yon,  and  1  suppose  you 
are  anxious  to  effect  a  reconciliation  between  us.  If  such  bo  the 
purport  of  your  visit,  Sir  Alexander— your  journey  must  prove 
in  vain.  I  never  will  forgive  that  ungrateful  young  muu,  uor  / 
admit  him  again  into  my  presence.' 

•' '  You  have  injured  him  too  deeply,  Robert,'  1  said,  calmly, 
for  you  know,  Geoff— that  it  is  of  little  use  of  Uyiug  into  a  pas- 
sion with  your  cold-blooded  uncle ;  ho  is  not  generous  enough 
to  get  insulted  and  show  fight  like  another  man—'  Geoffrey 
does  not  wish  it,  and  I,  should  scorn  to  ask  it  in  his  name' 

"The  man  of  law  looked  incredulous,  but  did  not  choose  to 
venture  a  reply. 

'"It  is  not  of   Geoffrey  Moncton,  the  independr„t  warm- 
hearted orphan,  I  wished  to  speak— who  thank  God  .  has  pluck 
luougii  to  take  his  own  part,  and  speuk  for  himself.     It  is  of 
one,  who  is  a  disgrace  to  his  name  and  family.    1  mean  youi  son 
Theoi)l,ilus.' 

'"Keally,  Sir  Alexander,  you  take  a  great  deal  of  trouble 
about  matters  which  do  not  concern  you'  (lie  said  this  with  a 
.siircastic  sneer),  'my  son  is  greatly  indebted  to  you  for  such 
disinterested  kindness.' 

"His  cool  impudence  provoked  me  beyond  endurance— 1 
felt  a  wicked  pleasure  in  retaliation,  which  God  forgive  me,  was 


BiWfBffSk!y£flS:»L. 


r 


i-" 


.306 


T  H  K     M  0  K  C  T  O  N  (8  . 


far  from  a  Christian  spirit.  But  I  despised  the  rascal  too  much 
at  that  moment  to  pity  him. 

" '  My  interfereuce  iu  this  matter  concerns  me  more  nearly  than 
you  imagine,  Mr.  Moucton.  Your  son's  unfortunate  wife  at- 
tempted suicide,  but  was  prevented  in  the  act  of  drowning 
herself  by  the  nephew  you  iiave  traduced  and  treated  so 
basely.' 

"  '  Damn  her !  why  did  he  not  let  her  drown  V  thundered 
furth  your  uncle. 

" '  Because  bis  heart  was  not  hardened  in  villainy  like  your 
own.  Your  daughter-in-law  now  lies  dying  at  my  house,  and 
I  wish  to  transfer  the  responsibility  from  my  hands  into  your 
own.' 

"  'It  was  your  fault  that  they  ever  met,'  he  cried.  'Your 
bve  of  low  society,  that  threw  them  together.  .Theophilus  was 
not  a  man  to  make  such  a  fool  of  himself — such  an  infernal 
fool  I' 

"  And  then  the  torrent  burst.  The  man  became  transformed 
into  the  demon.  He  stamped  and  raved — and  tore  his  hair,  and 
cursed,  with  the  most  horrid  and  blasphemous  oaths,  the  son  who 
had  followed  so  closely  in  his  steps.  Such  a  scene  I  never 
before  witnessed — such  a  spectacle  of  human  depravity  may  it 
never  be  my  lot  to  behold  again.  In  the  midst  of  his  incoherent 
ravings,  he  actually  threatened,  as  the  consummation  of  his  in- 
dignation against  his  son,  to  make  you  his  heir. 

"  Such  is  the  contradiction  inherent  in  our  fallen  nature,  that 
he  would  exhalt  the  man  he  hates,  to  revenge  himself  upon  the 
sou  who  has  given  the  death-blow  to  the  selfish  pride  which  has 
marked  his  crooked  path  through  life. 

"  I  left  the  man  of  sin  in  deep  disgust.  It  made  me  think  very 
humbly  of  myself.  Faith,  Geoff,  when  I  look  back  on  my  own 
early  career,  I  begin  to  think  that  we  are  a  vile  bad  set  *  and 
vitiiont  yoa  and  Madge  raise  the  moral  tone  of  the  family  char- 


a 
h 

h 

Ci 


t( 

BC 
I 

y« 

ha 
m; 

Ull 

to 
an 
mi 
lia 


rascal  too  much 

aore  acarly  than 
rtanate  wife  at- 
:t  of  drowDing 
ind   treated    so 

VII  V   thundered 

iUainy  like  your 
.  my  house,  and 
lands  into  your 

e  cried.  '  Your 
.Theophilus  was 
uch  an  infernal 

me  transformed 
9re  his  hair,  and 
ths,  the  son  who 
.  scene  I  never 
lepravity  may  it 
)f  his  incoherent 
ation  of  his  in- 

len  nature,  that 
limself  upon  the 
pride  which  has 

ie  me  think  very 
lack  on  my  own 
e  bad  set  *  and 
thb  family  char- 


THE     M  0  N  U  T  O  N  8 . 


301 


•cter  there  is  small  chance  of  any  of  the  other  members  finding 
their  way  to  heaven. 

"  I  spent  a  couple  of  quiet  days  with  my  old  friend  Onslow, 
and  then  commenced  my  journey  horafe. 

"At  a  small  village  about  thirty  miles  from  London,  I  was 
overtaken  by  such  a  violent  storm  of  thunder  and  rain,  that 
I  had  to  put  up  at  the  only  inn  in  the  place  for  the  night. 

"  In  the  passage  I  was  accosted  by  an  old  man  of  pleasing 
demeanor,  and  with  somewhat  of  a  foreign  aspect,  who  inquired 
if  he  had  the  honor  of  speaking  to  Sir  Alexander  Moncton  ?  I 
said  yes,  but  that  he  had  the  advantage  of  me,  as  1  believed  him 
to  be  a  perfect  stranger. 

"  He  appeared  embarrassed,  and  said,  that  he  did  not  wonder 
at  my  forgetting  him,  as  it  was  only  in  a  subordinate  situation  I 
had  ever  seen  him,  and  that  was  many  years  ago. 

"I  now  looked  hard  at  the  man,  and  a  conviction  of  often 
having  seen  him  before  flashed  into  my  mind.     It  was  an  image 
connected  with  bygone  years— years  of  folly  and  dissipation.  " 
"  '  Surely  you  are  not  William  Walters,  who  for  such  a  long 
time  was  the  friend  and  confidant  of  Robert  Moncton.' 
" '  The  same,  at  your  service.' 

"  '  Mr.  Walters,'  said  I,  turning  on  my  heel,  '  I  have  no  wish 
to  resume  the  acquaintance.' 

You  are  right,'  he  replied,  and  was  silent  for  a  minute  or 
so,  then  resumed,  in  a  grave  and  humble  tone;  '  Sir  Alexander, 
I  trusi  we  are  both  better  men,  or  the  experience  and  sorrows  of 
years  have  been  given  to  us  in  vain.  I  can  truly  say,  that  I 
have  deeply  repented  of  my  former  sinful  life,  and  I  trust  that 
my  repentance  has  been  accepted  by  that  God  before  whom  we 
must  both  soon  appear.  Still,  I  cannot  blame  you,  for  wishing 
to  have  no  further  intercourse  with  one  whom  you  only  knew  as 
an  immoral  and  unprincipled  man.  But  for  the  sake  of  a  young 
man,  who,  if  living,  is  a  near  connection  of  yours,  I  beg  yon  to 
listen  patiently  to  what  I  have  to  say.' 


vmm, 


^;<'-;"//s"'- 


808 


T  H  K  M  <)  S  i;  T  0  S  8 . 


M 

m 


Ml 


I*' 


"  '  If  your  oommimlcation  has  reference  to  Geoffrey,  the.  son 
of  Edward  Monoton,  and  nephew  to  Robert,  I  am  entirely  at 
your  service.' 

"  He  is  the  man  1  I  have  left  a  comfortable  home  in  the 
United  States,  and  returned  to  England  with  the  sole  object  in 
view,  of  settling  a  moral  debt  which  has  lain  a  long  time  pain- 
fully oD  my  conscience.  I  was  jjist  on  my  way  to  Moncton 
Park  to  speak  to  you  on  this  important  subject.' 

"  My  dear  Geoff,  you  may  imagine  the  feelings  with  which  I 
heard  this  announcement.  Had  I  been  alone,  I  should  have 
snapped  my  fingers,  whistled,  shouted  for  joy — anything  that 
would  have  diminishc  ^  with  safety  the  suffocatiiig  feeling  at  my 
heart,  I  was  so  glad — I  never  knew  how  dear  you  were  to  me 
until  then.  So  I  invited  the  solemn,  and  rather  puritanical 
-looking  white-headed  man  to  partake  of  my  dinner,  and  spend 
the  evening  in  my  apartment,  in  order  to  get  out  of  him  all 
that  I  could  concerning  you.  The  result  was  most  satisfactory. 
There  was  no  need  of  bribes  or  nut-crackers ;  he  was  anxious 
to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  for  which  I  gave  him  ample 
absolution. 

"  Here  is  his  confession,  as  well  as  I  can  remember  it. 

"  '  My  acquaintance  with  Robert  Moncton  commenced  Pt 
wehool.  I  was  the  only  son  of  a  rich  banker  in  the  city  of  Nor- 
wich. My  father  was  generouiu  to  a  fault,  and  allowed  me  more 
pocket-money  than  my  young  companions  could  boast  of 
receiving  from  their  friends  at  home. 

"  '  My  father  had  risen,  by  a  train  of  fortunate  circumstances, 
from  a  very  humble  station  in  Ufe,  and  \ras  ostentatiously 
proud  of  his  wealth.  He  was  particularly  anxious  for  me  to 
pass  for  the  son  of  a  very  rich  man  at  sc'iool,  which  he  fancied 
would  secure  for  me  powerful  friends,  and  their  interest  in  my 
journey  through  life.' 

"  *I  was  not  at  all  averse  to  his  plans,  which  I  carried  out  to 
4heir  fullest  extent,  and  went  by  the  name  Beady-Money 
Jack,  among  my  school-mates,  who  I  have  no  doubt  whispered 


be 
for 

tht 

lUO 

adi 
ing 
aiH 
wa! 
toe 

be  ( 

tool 
assi 
thin 
in  n 

n 

the 
lessc 
hiins 
scho 

dign 

and 

from 
« < 

profii 

but] 

it  I 

^ome 
becar 
BJnctii 

in 


^Urt'TiTi  ■ 


r-  JL.. 


THE     MONCrONS. 


809 


jffiey,  thft  son 
ini  entirely  at 

J  home  in  tho 
sole  object  in 
rig  time  pain- 
y  to  Moncton 

■with  which  I 
[  should  have 
anything  that 
1^  feeling  at  my 
II  were  to  noe 
er  puritanical 
ler,  and  spend 
It  of  him  all 
it  satisfactory. 
i  was  anxious 
D    him  ample 

iber  it. 

ommenced  ft 
le  city  of  Nor- 
)wed  me  more 
}uld  boast  of 

lircurastanoes, 
ostentatiously 
)us  for  me  to 
ich  he  fancied 
nterest  in  my 

carried  out  to 

Beady-Money 

ubt  whispered 


behind  my  back,  that-fools  and  their  money  are  soon  parted- 
for  you  know,  Sir  Alexander,  this  is  the  way  of  the  world.  And 
there  is  no  place  in  which  the  world  and  its  sellish  maxims  are 
wore  fully  exemplified  than  in  a  large  boarding-school. 

'"I  had  not  been  long  at  school  when  the  two  Monctons  were 
admitted  to  the  same  class  with  myself.  Edward  was  a  dash- 
ing, eloquent,  brave  lad  ;  more  remarkable  for  a  fi,.e  appearance 
and  an  admirable  temper,  tkan  for  any  particular  talent.  He 
was  a  very  popular  boy,  but  soraehow  or  other  we  did  not  take 
to  each  other. 

"  '  The  boyish  vanity  fostered  by  my  father,  made  me  wish  to 
be  considered  the  first  lad  in  the  achool ;  a  notion  which  Edward 
took  good  care  to  keep  down  ;  and  fretted  and  galled  by  his 
assumption  of  superiority,  I  turned  to  Robert,  who  was  every- 
thing but  friendly  to  Edward,  to  support  my  cause  and  back  me 
in  my  quarrels. 

"  '  Robert  waff  a  handsome,  gentlemanly-looking  lad,  hut  quite 
the  revei^e  of  iSdward,  He  hated  rough  play,  learned  his 
le..sons  with  indefatigable  industry,  and  took  good  care  to  keep 
himself  out  of  harm's  way.  He  was  the  pattern  boy  of  tho 
school.     The  fa-.orite  with  all  the  teachers. 

"  '  He  posscbsed  a  grave,  specious  manner— a  cold  quiet 
dignity,  which  imposed  upon  the  ignorant  and  unsuspecting  • 
and  his  love  of  money  was  a  passion  that  drew  all  the  blood 
iroro  his  stern  proud  heart. 

•"  He  saw  that  I  was  frank  and  vain;  and  he  determined  to 
profit  by  my  weakness.     I  did  not  want  for  natural  capacity 
but  I  was  a  sad  idler.  r      /» 

"  'Robert  was  Pl.rewd  and  persevering,  and  I  paid  him  haud- 
80niely  fo.  doing  my  sums  and  writing  my  Latin  exercises.  We 
became  firm  friends,  and  I  loved  him  for  years  with  more 
sincerity  than  he  deserved. 

"•  As  I  advanced  towards  manhood,  my  poor  father  met  with 


310 


THK     MONOTONS. 


\i 


great  losses  ;  and  on  the  failure  of  a  large  firm  with  which  hii 
•own  was  principally  connected,  he  became  a  bankrupt. 

" '  Solely  dependent  upon  my  rich  father,  without  any  fixed 
aim  or  object  iu  life,  I  had  just  made  a  most  imprudent  marriage, 
when  his  death,  which  happened  almost  immediately  upon  bis 
reverse  of  fortune,  awoke  me  to  the  melancholy  reality  that 
stared  me  in  the  face. 

" '  In  my  distress  I  wrote  to  Robert  Moncton,  who  had  just 
commenced  practice  at  his  old  office  in  Hatton  Garden.  He 
answered  my  a|)peal  to  his  charity  promptly,  and  gave  me  a 
seat  in  his  office  as  engrossing  clerk,  with  a  very  liberal  salary 
which,  I  need  not  assure  yon,  was  most  thankfully  accepted  by 
a  person  in  my  reduced  circumstances. 

" '  This  place  I  filled  entirely  to  his  satisfaction  for  fifteen 
years,  until  I  was  the  father  of  twelve  children. 

"  '  My  salary  was  large,  but,  alas  I  it  was  the  wages  of  sin. 
All  Robert  Moncton's  dirty  work  was  confided  to  my  hands. 
I  was  his  creature — the  companion  of  his  worst  hours — t(nd  ho 
paid  me  liberally  for  my  devotion  to  his  interests.  But  for  all 
this,  there  were  moments  in  my  worthless  life — when  better  feel- 
ings prevailed — when  I  loathed  the  d^radinr;  trammels  in 
which  I  was  bound ;  and  often,  on  the  bosom  of  a  dear  and 
affectioaate  wife,  I  lamented  bitterly  my  fallen  state. 

" '  About  this  period  Edward  Moncton  died,  and  Robert 
was  appointed  guardian  to  his  orphac  child.  Property  there 
was  none — barely  sufficient  to  pay  the  expenses  of  the  funeral. 
Robert  supplied  from  his  own  purse  £50,  towards  the  support 
of  the  young  widow,  until  she  could  look  about  and  obtaik*  a 
situation  as  a  day  governess  or  a  teacher  in  a  school,  for  which 
she  was  eminently  qualified. 

" '  I  never  shall  forget  the  unnatura'  ioy  displayed  by  Robert 
an  ibis  melancholy  occasion. 

"'"Thank  God  t  William,''  he  Bai'.  clapping  me  on  the 


c 

0 

n 

ai 
h( 
n 
b< 
al 

01 

dii 

bii 
ini 

ofi 

sai 

yoi 
doi 
ma 

wai 
fiui 


THR     MOMOTUNii 


•311 


\i  which  bii 

t. 

)  any  fixed 

t  marriage, 

y  upon  his 

reality  that 

ho  had  just 
arden.  He 
gave  me  a 
)eral  salary 
accepted  by 

a  for  fifteen 

'ages  of  sin. 

0  my  hands, 
mra — Aad  he 

But  for  all 

1  better  feel- 
trammels  in 

a  dear  and 

and  Robert 
operty  there 

the  faneral. 

the  support 
tnd  obtaiu  a 
ol,  for  which 

|d  by  Robert 

me  on  the 


ihonlder,  after  he  had  read  the  letter  which  pour  Mrs.  Moiiutuii 
wrote  to  inform  him  of  lier  tjudden  bereavement,  "  Edward  is  dead. 
There  is  only  one  stumbliug-bloclc  left  in  my  path,  and  I  will 
BOOQ  kick  that  out  of  the  wuy." 

"'Three  months  had  scarcely  elapsed  before  I  went  to 

with  Robert  Moncton,  to  altciid  the  funeral  of  bis  sister-iu-luw. 

" '  The  sight  of  the  fine  boy  that  acted  as  chief  mourner  in  that 
mournful  ceremony  cut  me  to  the  heart.  1  was  a  father  niy.self 
— a  fond  father — and  I  longed  to  adopt  the  poor,  friendless 
child.  But  what  could  a  man  do  who  had  a  dozen  of  his 
own? 

"  '  As  we  were  on  our  road  to ',  Robert  had  confided  to 

me  his  plans  for  setting  aside  his  nephew's  claims  to  the  estates 
and  title  of  Moncton,  in  case  yuu  should  die  without  a  male 
heir.  The  secluded  life  that  Mrs.  Moncton  had  led  since  her 
marriage  ;  her  want  of  relatives  to  interest  themselves  in  her 
behalf,  and  the  dissipated  habits  of  her  husband,  who  had  lost 
all  his  fine  property  at  the  gaming-table,  made  the  scheme  not 
only  feasible,  but  presented  few  obstacles  to  its  accomplishment. 

"  '  Inexpressibly  shocked  at  this  piece  of  daring  villainy,  I 
dissembled  my  indignation,  and  while  I  appeared  to  acquiesce  in 
his  views,  I  secretly  determined  to  befriend,  if  possible,  the 
innocent  child. 

"  '  The  night  prior  to  the  funeral,  be  called  me  into  his  private 
office,  and  after  chatting  over  a  matter  of  little  consequence,  be 
said  to  me  in  a  careless  manner  : — 

•< ' ''  By  the  by,  Walters,  Basset  told  me  the  other  day,  that 
you  had  taken  a  craze  to  go  to  America.  This  is  your  wife's 
doings,  I  suppose.  I  don't  suffer  Mrs.  Moncton  to  settle  such 
matters  for  me.     But  is  it  true  ?" 

" '  I  said  that  it  had  been  on  my  mind  for  a  long  time.  Tiie 
want  of  funds  alone  preventing  me  from  emigrating  With  mj 
fiunily.' 


■*""— iwy 


I 


tip. 


3ia 


THE      MON  CTONS. 


"  ' "  If  that  is  all,  the  want  of  money  need  not  hinder  yoa. 
But  mind,  Walters,  I  am  not  generous,  I  expect  something  for 
my  gold.  Yon  have  been  faithful  to  me,  and  I  am  anxious  to 
show  yon  that  I  am  not  insensible  to  your  merit.  We  are  old 
friends,  Walt— we  understand  each  other  ;  we  are  not  troubled 
with  nice  scruples,  and  dare  to  call  things  by  their  right 
niinies.     But  to  the  point. 

"  '  "This  boy  of  my  brotlior's,  as  1  was  telling  you,  is  a  thorn 
in  my  aide,  which  yon  can  remove." 

"  '  "  In  what  way  V  I  said,  in  a  toue  of  alarm. 

"  • "  Don't  look  blue;"  and  he  laughed.  "  1  kill  with  the  tongue 
and  the  pen,  and  leave  to  fools  the  pistol  and  the  knife.     You 

must  go  to  the  Parish  of among  the  Derby  hills,  where 

Edward  was  married,  and  where  he  resided,  enacting  love  in  a 
cottage,  with  his  pretty,  penniless  bride,  until  after  this  boy, 
Geoffrey,  was  born— and  subtract,  if  possible,  the  leaves  from 
the  church-books  that  contain  these  important  registries.  Do 
this  with  your  usual  address,  and  I  will  meet  all  the  expenses  of 
your  intended  emigration." 

"  '  The  offer  was  tempting  to  a  poor  man,  but  I  still  hesitated, 
conjuring  up  a  thousand  difficulties  which  eitljer  awoke  his  mirth 
or  scorn. 

"  '  "  The  only  dlEBculty  that  1  can  find  in  the  business,"  he  said, 
"is  your  unwillingnesa  to  undertake  it.  The  miserable  old  < 
wretch  employed  as  clerk  in  the  church,  is  quite  superanimated. 
A  small  bribe  will  win  him  to  your  purpose,  especially  as  Mr. 
Roche,  the  incumbent,  is  just  now  at  the  sea-side,  whither  he  is 
gone  in  the  delusive  hope  of  curing  old  age.  Possessed  of  these 
registers,  I  will  defy  the  boy  to  substantiate  his  claims,  pro- 
vided that  he  lives  to  be  a  man,  for  I  have  carefully  destroyed 
all  the  other  documents  which  could  lead  to  prove  the  legality 
of  his  title.  The  old  gardener  and  his  nurse  must  be  persuaded 
to  accompany  you  to  America.    Old  Roche  is  on  his  last  legsr- 


tra 
to 

the 

the 
wUl 

afte 

emp 

chai 

Ieav( 

like], 

hut 

daag 

I  ta 

bapp 

them 

prov< 
« I 

<i  I 

staye( 
Iplac 
are  ;' 
leathc 

Alzar 
thath 
took  p 

heartil 
But  1 
Monet 


1 


ider  yon. 
ithing  for 
nxious  to 
''e  are  ol<l 
;  troubled 
leir  right 

is  a  thorn 


the  tougiio 
life.  You 
lills,  where 
r  love  ill  tt 
this  boy. 
eaves  from 
stries.  Do 
'xpeuses  of 

1  hesitated, 
n  his  mirth 

58,"  he  said, 
serable  old  • 
iranimated. 
illy  as  Mr. 
lither  he  is 
of  these 
[laims,  pro- 
destroyed 
;he  legality 
persuaded 
last  legB-r- 


T  H  R     li  O  .V  C  T  O  N  8  . 


818 


flroni  hini  I  shall  soon  have  nothing  to  fear.  What  do  yoa  say 
to  my  proposal — yes  or  no  V* 

"  ' "  Yes,"  I  stammered  out,  "  I  will  undertake  it,  as  it  is  to  be 
the  last  affair  of  the  kind  in  which  I  mean  to  engage." 

"  ' "  You  will  forget  it,"  said  he,  "  before  you  have  half  croesed 
the  Atlantic,  and  can  begin  the  world  with  a  new  character.  I 
will  give  you  five  hundred  pounds  to  commence  with." 

" '  This  iniquitous  bargain  concluded,  1  went  down  the  day 

after  the  funeral  to  ,  on  my  honorable  mission.    As  my 

employer  anticipated,  a  few  shillings  to  the  old  clerk  placed  the 
church-books  at  my  disposal,  from  which  I  carefully  cut  the 
leaves  (which,  in  that  quiet,  out-of-the-way  hamlet,  were  not 
likely  to  be  missed)  that  contained  the  registries.  In  a  small 
hut  among  the  hills  I  found  the  old  gardener  and  his  widowed 
daughter,  who  had  been  nurse  to  Qeoffrey  and  his  mother,  whom 
I  talked  into  a  fever  of  enthusiasm  about  America,  and  the 
happy  life  that  people  led  there,  which  ended  in  my  engaging 
them  to  accompany  mc.  Good  and  valuable  servants  they  both 
proved.    They  are  since  dead.' 

"  '  And  what  became  of  the  registries  ?  Did  you  destroy  them  7' 

"  '  1  tried  to  do  it,  Sir  Alexander,  but  it  seemed  as  if  an  angel 
stayed  my  hand,  and  yielding  to  my  impressions  at  the  moment, 
I  placed  them  carefully  among  my  private  papers.  Here  they 
are  ;'  and  taking  from  his  breast-pocket  an  old-fashioned  black 
leathern  wallet,  he  placed  them  in  my  hand. 

" '  Here,  too,'  he  said,  '  is  an  affidavit,  made  by  Michael 
Alzure  on  his  dying  bed,  before  competent  witnesses,  declaring 
that  he  was  present  with  his  daughter  Mary,  when  the  ceremony 
took  place.' 

"  '  This  is  enough,'  said  I,  joyfully,  and  shaking  the  old  sinner 
heartily  by  the  hand.  '  The  king  shall  have  his  own  again. 
But  how  did  you  hoodwink  that  sagacious  hawk,  Robert 
Moncton  ?' 

U 


au 


Til  V.      M  i>  X  C  r  (•  S  fl. 


•1 


I 


"  '  He  was  from  home  when  I  returned  to  London,  attending 
the  assizeg  at  Bury.  I  found  a  letter  from  him  containing  a 
draft  upon  his  banker  for  five  hundred  pounds,  and  requesting 
me  to  deposit  the  papers  in  the  iron  chest  in  the  garret  of  which 
I  had  the  Itey.  I  wrote  in  reply,  that  I  had  done  so,  and  he 
was  perfectly  satisfied  with  my  sincerity,  which  during  fifteen 
years  I  had  never  given  him  the  least  cause  to  donbt. 

" '  The  next  week,  I  sailed  for  the  United  States  with  my 
family,  dHtermined,  from  henceforth,  to  drop  ail  connection  with 
Robert  Moncton,  and  to  endeavor  to  obtain  an  honest  living. 

" '  It  has  pleased  God  to  bless  all  my  undertakings — I  am  now 
a  rich  and  prosiwrous  man — my  children  are  married  and  stilled 
on  good  farms,  in  the  same  neighborhood,  and  enjoying  the  com- 
mon comforts  and  many  of  the  luxuries  of  life.  Still,  that  little 
orphan  boy  haunted  me — I  could  not  be  happy  while  I  knew 
that  I  had  been  the  means  of  doing  him  a  foul  injury,  and  I 
determineJ,  as  soon  as  I  knew  that  the  lad  must  be  of  age,  to 
make  a  voyage  to  England,  and  place  in  your  hands  the  proofs 
I  held  of  his  legitimacy. 

" '  Your  powerful  assistance.  Sir  Alexander,  and  these  papers, 
will  I  trust  restore  to  him  his  lawful  place  iu  society,  and  I  am 
here  to  witness  against  Robert  Moncton's  villainy.' 

"Well,  Sir  Geoffrey  Moncton,  that  will  be,  what  do  you 
gay  to  your  old  uncle's  budget  ?  Is  not  this  news  worth  the 
postage  ?  Worth  throwing  up  one's  tup  and  crying  hurrah — 
and  better  still,  dropping  down  upon  yow  knees  iu  the  solitude 
(rf  your  own  chamber,  and  whispering  in  your  clasped  hands, 
'Thank  God  for  all  bis  mercies  to  me,  a  sinner?'  If  you  omit 
the  prayer,  I  have  not  omitted  it  for  you,  for  most  fervently  I 
blessed  the  Almighty  Father  for  this  signal  instance  of   his 

love. 

"  I  returned  to  the  Park,  so  elated  with  the  result  of  my 
journey,  that  I  could  scarcely  sympathize  in  the  grief  of  my 


poor 

durii 
II 

to  b( 
<i 

ulreu 
time 
ordei 
will 
"J 
fathe 
tnkei 
faith! 

Ii 

ant  1( 
worti 
affecl 

"( 
again 
for  m 

I  V 
comn 

Th 
I  ma( 
the  ni 

Mr 
ander 
me  sii 

Th« 
rest,  I 
ness,  I 
iucrea 
bat  in 


*■*■'. 


THI    MONCTONS. 


815 


a,  attending 
containing  a 
1  requesting 
ret  of  which 
)  80,  and  be 
tiring  fifteen 
it. 

«8  with  my 
neetion  with 
98t  living. 
1 — I  am  now 
1  and  settled 
ing  the  com- 
11,  that  little 
liile  I  knew 
injury,  and  I 
)e  of  age,  to 
8  the  proofs 

these  papers, 
ty,  and  I  am 

irhat  do  you 
s  worth  the 
ng  hurrah — 
I  the  solitude 
isped  hands, 
If  you  omit 
t  fervently  I 
Lance  of   liis 

result  of  my 
grief  of  my 


poor  girl,  for  the  death  of  her  foflte^8iBter,  which  took  place 
during  my  absence. 

"  Old  Dinah  is  off.  Perhaps  gone  somewhat  before  her  time 
to  her  appointed  place. 

"It  is  useless  your  remaining  longer  in  Derbyshire,  aa  we 
already  possess  ail  yon  want  to  know,  and  you  musi  lose  no 
time  in  commencing  a  suit  against  yonr  uncle  for  conspiracy  in 
order  to  defr-aud  you  onC  of  your  rights.  Bobtrt's  character 
will  never  stand  the  test  of  this  infamous  exposure. 

"  My  sweet  Madge  looks  ill  and  delicate,  and  like  the  old 
father,  pines  to  see  you  ngaiu.  You  young  scamp — you  have 
taken  a  strange  Lold  on  the  heart  of  your  attached  kinsmnn  and 
faithfnl  friend, 

"Alrxandrr  Moncton." 

I  made  my  kind  friend,  Mrs.  Hepburn,  read  over  this  import- 
ant letter  twice.  It  was  the  longest,  I  verily  believe,  that  the 
worthy  scribe  ever  penned  in  his  life,  and  which  nothing  but  his 
affection  for  me,  could  have  induced  him  to  write. 

"  God  bless  him  I"  I  cried  fervently,  "how  1  long  to  see  him 
again,  and  thank  him  from  my  very  heart,  for  all  he  has  done 
for  me." 

I  was  so  elated,  that  I  wanted  to  leave  my  bed  instantly  and 
commence  Oiy  journey  to  the  Park. 

This  was  but  a  momentary  delusion — I  was  too  weak,  when 
I  made  the  trial,  to  sit  upright,  or  even  to  bold  a  pen,  which  WM 
the  most  provoking  of  the  two. 

Mrs.  Hepburn,  at  my  earnest  solicitation,  wrote  to  Sir  Alex- 
ander,  a  long  and  circumstantial  account  of  all  that  had  befallen 
me  since  I  left  Moncton. 

That  night  was  full  of  restless  tossings  to  and  fro.  I  sought 
rest,  but  found  it  not ;  nay,  I  cculd  not  even  think  w  'th  calm- 
ness, and  the  result  was  as  might  have  been  expected,  a  great 
increase  of  fever,  and  for  several  days  I  was  not  only  worse, 
bat  in  considerable  danger. 


'wmmm 


I 


81« 


THB     MONOTON), 


Nothing  could  be  more  tantalizing  than  this  provolcing  relapse. 
A  miserable  presentiment  of  evil  clouded  ray  mind— my  anxiety 
to  write  to  Murgaretta  vas  painfully  intense,  and  this  was  a 
species  of  communication  which  I  could  not  very  well  convey 
through  another. 

To  this  unfortunate  deSay,  I  have  attributed  much  of  the  sor 
rows  of  after  years. 

Our  will  is  free  to  plan.  Our  opportunities  of  action  are  in 
the  hands  of  God— what  I  most  aniently  desired  to  do  I  was 
prevented  from  doing  by  physical  weakness.  How,  then,  can 
any  man  affirm  that  his  destiny  is  in  his  own  hands,  when  cir- 
cumstances form  a  chain  around  him,  as  strong  as  fate,  and  the 
mind  battles  in  vain  against  a  host  of  trifles,  despicable  enough 
when  viewed  singly,  but  when  taken  in  combination,  possessing 
gigantic  f^trcnglh  ? 

Another  painful  week  wore  slowly  away,  at  the  end  of  which 
1  was  able  to  sit  up  in  a  loose  dressing-gown  for  several  hours 
during  the  day. 

I  lost  not  a  moment  in  writing  to  Margaretta  directly  I  was 
able  to  hold  a  pen.  I  informed  her  of  all  that  had  passed 
between  me  and  Catherine,  and  laid  open  my  whole  heart  to  her, 
without  the  least  reserve.  Deeming  myself  unworthy  of  her 
lov8,  I  left  all  to  her  generosity.  I  dispatched  my  letter  with  a 
thousand  uticomfortable  misgivings  as  to  what  eCTect  it  might 
produce  upon  the  sensitive  mind  of  my  little  cousin. 

To  write  a  long  letter  to  George  Harrison  was  the  next  duty 
I  hai  to  perform  ;  but  when  I  reflected  on  the  delight  which  my 
communication  could  not  fail  to  convey,  this  was  not  only  an 
easy,  but  a  delightful  task. 

I  had  already  arrived  at  the  second  closely  written  sheet,  when 
a  light  tap  at  the  door  of  the  room  announced  the  presence  of 
Kate  Lee. 

"  What,  busy  writing  still,  Geoffrey  ?  What  will  honest  Dan 
eay  to  this  rebellious  conduct  on  the  part  of  his  patient  ?  You 


mn 
an( 
thii 

al)9 
hits 


tree 

us  I 

C 

(I 

coul 

<l 

pati 

•I 

inna 

II 

like 
Hate 
tory 

SI 
than 
recoi 
thou 
tears 

Ai 
Poor 
the  I 
own 
sittin 


king  relapse, 
-my  anxiety 
[  this  was  a 
well  couvey 

h  of  the  nor 

«tion  are  in 
to  do  I  was 
iw,  then,  can 
ds,  when  cir- 
fate,  and  the 
able  enough 
n,  possessing 

end  of  which 
lereral  hoars 

rectly  I  was 
.  had  passed 
heart  to  her, 
ortby  of  her 
letter  with  a 
feet  it  might 

he  next  duty 
;ht  which  my 
I  not  only  an 

n  sheet,  when 
8  presence  of 

1  honest  Dan 
jatient?  You 


THR     MOVCTONH. 


an 


must  lay  aside  i>en8  and  paper  for  this  day.  Your  fuco  is  Qushed 
•nd  fevrish.  Don't  shake  your  head,  my  word  is  despotic  in 
this  house— I  must  be  obeyed  " 

"  Wait  a  few  miimies,  dear  Miss  Leo,  and  your  will  shall  be 
ubsolulc.  It  WU8  because  I  am  writing  of  you,  that  my  letter 
has  run  to  such  au  unconscionable  lengtii." 

"  Of  me,  Geoffrey  ?" 

"  Yen,  of  you,  my  charming  friend." 

"  Nay,  you  are  joking,  Mr.  Moncton.  You  wonkl  never  di«. 
tress  me,  by  writing  of  me  to  strangers  ?" 

"  Strangers— oh  no-but  this  is  to  one  who  is  most  dear  to 
us  both." 

Catherine  turned  very  pale. 

"  Geoffrey,  I  hope  that  you  have  not  said  auything  that  I 
could  wish  unsaid  ?" 

"  Do  not  look  like  a  scared  dove,  sweet  Kate.  Have  a  little 
patience,  and  you  shall  read  the  letter." 

"  That  is  asking  too  much  ;  I  will  trust  to  your  honor— that 
innate  sense  of  delicacy  which  I  know  you  possess." 

"  You  shall  read  the  letter— I  insist  upon  it.  If  you  do  not 
like  it,  I  will  write  another.  But  you  must  sit  down  by  me  and 
listen  to  what  I  have  to  tell  you,  of  my  poor  friend's  his- 
tory." 

She  turned  her  glistening  eyes  upon  me,  full  of  grateful 
thanks,  and  seated  herself  beside  me  on  thi  conch.  I  then 
recounted  to  her  the  history  that  George  had  confided  to  me, 
though  the  narration  was  often  interrupted  by  the  sighs  and 
tears  of  my  attentive  auditor. 

After  the  melancholy  tale  was  told,  a  long  silence  ensued. 
Poor  Kate  was  too  busy  with  her  own  thoughts  to  speak.  I  put 
the  letter  I  had  been  writing  into  her  hands,  and  retired  to  my 
own  chamber,  which  opened  into  the  one  in  which  we  were 
sitting,  whilst  she  perused  it.     It  was  a  simple  statement  of  the 


\ 


•\ 


318 


r  H  K     M  0  N  U  T  0  N  a . 


•?W1 


iii 


factH  related  above.  1  had  luft  bim  to  draw  from  them  what 
infereiioe  he  pleased. 

When  I  returned  au  hour  after  to  the  Bittiiig-room,  which  had 
been  fitted  up  as  Huch  entirely  for  my  accomnio<lation,  the  win- 
dows opening  into  a  balcony  that  ran  along  the  whole  front  of 
the  house,  I  found  Kate  leaning  upon  the  railing,  with  the  open 
letter  still  in  her  hand. 

Her  fine  eyes  were  raised  and  full  of  tears,  but  she  looked 
serene  and  happy,  her  beautiful  face  reminding  me  of  an  April 
sun  just  emerging  from  a  soft  fleecy  cloud,  which  dimmed, 
only  to  increase  by  softening,  the  glory  which  it  could  not 
conceal. 

"  Well,  dear  Kate,  may  I  finish  my  letter  to  George— for  I 
must  call  him  so  still  V 

"  No." 

"  Why  not,"  I  said,  surprised,  and  half  angry. 

"  Becaase  I  mean  to  finish  it  myself— will  you  give  me  per- 
mission ?" 

"  By  all  means  :  it  will  make  bim  so  happy." 

"  And  you  are  not  jealous  7"  And  as  she  said  this,  she  bent 
upon  me  a  curious  and  searching  glance. 

"  Not  now  ;  a  few  weeks  ago  I  should  have  been.  To  tell 
you  the  truth,  dear  Kate,  I  am  too  egotistical  a  fellow  to  love 
one  who  does  not  lore  me.  I  truly  rejoice  in  the  anticipated 
happiness  of  my  friend." 

Methought  she  looked  a  little  disappointed,  but  recovering 
herself,  she  added  quickly — 

••  This  is  as  it  should  be,  yet  I  most  own  that  my  woman's 
▼anity  is  a  little  hart  at  the  coolness  of  your  philosophy.  We 
all  love  power,  Qeoffrey,  and  do  not  like  to  lose  it.  Yet  I  am 
sincerely  glad  that  you  have  conquered  an  attachment  which 
would  have  rendered  us  both  miserable  No  fear  of  a  broken 
heart  in  your  case." 


the 
Hfl 
bre 
the 
i 
con 

my 
Tsl 
for 

to  I 
you 
bad 


■I.  . 


THK     MONOTONS. 


819 


them  what 

which  had 
111,  the  win- 
lole  front  of 
h  the  open 

she  looked 
)f  an  April 
h  dimmed, 

could  not 

>rge — for  I 


"  Such  things  have  been,  and  may  bo  again,  Kato,  but  I  believe 
them  to  belong  more  to  tlio  poetry  than  the  reality  of  life. 
Hearts  are  made  of  tough  materiaU.  They  don't  choose  to 
break  in  the  right  place,  and  jaat  when  and  where  we  want 
them." 

She'  laughed,  and  atked  when  I  thooght  I  should  be  able  to 
commence  my  Journey  to  Moncton  Park  1 

"  In  a  few  days  I  hope.  I  feel  growing  better  every  hour  ; 
my  mind  recovers  elasticity  with  retarning  strength.  But  how 
T  shall  ever  repay  you,  dear  Miss  Lee,  and  your  excellen'  aunt, 
for  your  care  and  kindness,  puzzles  me." 

"  Geoffrey,  your  accident  has  been  productive  of  great  good 
to  us  all,  80  say  no  more  about  it.  I,  for  one,  consider  myself  it. 
your  debt.  You  have  made  two  friends,  whom  a  mel  d68tioj 
bad  separated,  m3st  happy." 


ive  me  per- 


is, she  bent 

n.  To  tell 
How  to  love 
anticipated 

recovering 

ny  woman'a 
ophy.  We 
Yet  I  am 
nent  which 
)f  a  broken 


■■tMA'bitir*^' 


'Tmmm 


if- 


mp 


320 


THE     IfONOTONS. 


"^S 


CHAPTER     XXIX 


A    WELCOME   AND   AN   UNWELCOME    MEETING. 


Three  days  had  scarcely  elapsed,  when  I  foand  myself  mounted 
on  my  good  steed,  and  gaily  trotting  along  the  road  on  my  way 
to  Monctoit  Park. 

Honest  Dan  Simpson  insisted  on  being  my  companion  for  the 
first  stage.  "Just,"  he  said,  "  to  take  care  of  me,  and  see  how 
I  got  along."  I  could  gladly  have  dispensed  with  his  company, 
for  I  longed  to  be  alone — but  to  hurt  the  good  fellow's  feelings, 
would  have  been  the  height  of  ingratitude. 

He  bad  indignantly  rejected  the  ample  remuneration  which 
Sir  Alexander  had  remitted  for  his  services. 

"  I  took  care  of  you  for  love,  Sir.  It  was  no  trouble,  but  a 
pleasure.  As  to  money — I  don't  want  it,  I  have  saved  a  good 
pile  for  old  ago,  and  have  neither  wife  nor  child  to  give  it  to 
when  I  die.  Lord,  sir,  I  was  afraid  that  you  would  take  it  ill, 
or  I  was  going  to  ask  you  if  you  wanted  any.  I  should  have 
been  proud  to  accommodate  you,  until  you  had  plenty  of  your 


n 


own. 

1  could  have  hugged  the  dear  old  man  in  my  arms.  Fortun- 
ately my  being  on  horseback  prevented  such  an  excess.  I 
turned  to  him  to  speak  my  thanks,  but  a  choking  in  my  throat 
prevented  my  uttering  a  word.  He  caught  the  glance  of  my 
moist  eye,  and  dashed  the  dew,  with  his  hard  hand,  from  his 
own. 

"  I  know  what  you  would  say,  Mr.  Geoffrey.  But  you  need 
not  say  it.     It  would  only  make  me  feel  bad." 


lyself  mounted 
ad  on  my  way 

panion  for  the 
I,  and  gee  how 
1  his  company, 
low's  feelings, 

eration  which 

trouble,  but  a 
saved  a  good 
to  give  it  to 
lid  take  it  ill, 
'.  should  have 
ilenty  of  your 

ms.  Fortun- 
in  excess.  I 
in  my  throat 
glance  of  my 
and,  from  his 

)ut  yon  need 


THE     MONCTONS. 


321 


"  I  shall  never  forget  you  kindness,  Dan.  P.ut  will  always 
reckon  you  among  my  best  friends." 

"  That's  enough,  sir— I'm  satisfied,  overpaid,"  and  the  true- 
hearted  fellow  rode  close  up  to  me  and  held  out  his  hand.  I 
shook  it  warmly.  He  turned  his  horse  quickly  round,  and 
the  sliarp  ringing  of  his  hoofs  on  the  rocky  road  told  me  that 
he  was  gone. 

I  rode  slowiy  on  ;  the  day  'vas  opji'  essively  warm,  not  a  breath 
of  air  stirred  the  bushes  by  the  >jad-side,  or  shook  the  dust 
from  the  tawny  leaves  which  ulready  had  lost  their  lender  green, 
and  were  embrowned  bceath  the  hot  gaze  of  the  August  noon- 
day sun. 

Overcome  by  the  heat,  and  languid  from  my  long  confine- 
ment to  a  sick  room,  I  often  checked  my  horse  and  sauntered 
slowiy  along,  keeping  the  sbady  side  of  the  road,  and  envring 
the  cattle  in  the  meadawij  standing  mid  leg  in  the  shallow 
streams.  * 

"There  will  surely  be  a  storm  before  night,"  1  said,  looking 
wistfully  up  to  the  cloudless  sky,  wiiich  very  much  resembled 
Job's  description  of  a  molten  looking-glass.  "  I  feel  the  breath 
of  the  tempest  in  this  scorching  air.  A  little  raiu  would  lay 
the  dust,  and  render  to-morrow's  journey  less  fatiguing." 

My  soliloquy  was  interrupted  by  the  sharp  click  of  a  horse's 
hoofs  behind  me,  and  presently  his  rider  passed  me  at  full  speed. 
A  transient  glance  at  the  stranger's  face  made  me  suddenly 
recoil. 

It  was  Robert  Moucton. 

He  looked  pale  and  haggard,  and  his  countenance  wore  an 
unusual  appearance  of  anxiety  and  care.  He  did  not  notice  me, 
and  checking  my  horse,  I  felt  relieved  when  a  turning  in  the 
road  hid  him  from  my  sight. 

His  presence  appeared  Uke  a  bad  omen.  A  heavy  gloom 
sunk  upon  my  spirits,  and  I  felt  half  inclined  to  halt  at  the 

14* 


p  »  n  ■Hw%aaf^f>pw«BilPlf'» 


322 


T  H  K      M  O  N  0  T  O  X  8  , 


small  village  I  was  approaching  and  rest  until  the  heat  of  the 
day  had  subsided,  and  I  could  resume  my  journey  in  the  cool  of 
the  eveninj^. 

Ashamed  of  such  weakness,  I  resolutely  turned  my  face  from 
every  houce  of  entertainment  1  passed,  p.nd  had  nearly  cleared 
the  long  straggling  line  of  picturesque  white-washed  cottafjes, 
which  composed  the  larger  portion  of  the  village,  when  the  figure 
of  a  gentleman  pacing  to  and  fro,  in  front  of  a  (^ ^cent-looking 
inn,  arrested  my  attention.  There  was  somethi..(;  in  the  sir  and 
manner  of  this  person,  which  appeared  familiar  to  me.  He 
raised  his  head  as  I  rode  up  to  the  door.  The  recogaitton  was 
mutual. 

"  Geoffrey  Moncton  I" 

"  Goorge  Harrison  I  Who  would  have  thought  of  meeting 
you  in  this  out  of  the  way  place  ?" 

"  There  is  an  old  saying,  GcOflfrey — talk  of  the  Devil  and  he 
is  sure  to  uppear.  I  was  tiiinking  of  you  at  the  very  moment, 
and  raising  my  eyes  saw  you  before  me." 

"  Ay,  that  is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  mind,  which  has  still 
to  be  solved,"  said  I,  as  I  dismounted  from  my  horse  and  fol- 
lowed George  into  the  house.  "  I  am  so  heartily  glad  to  see 
you  old  fellow,"  I  cried,  embracing  him  warmly,  directly  we 
were  alone — I  have  a  thousand  things  to  say  to  yon,  which  could 
not  be  crowded  into  the  short  compass  of  a  letter." 

"  Hush — don't  speak  so  loud,"  and  ne  glanced  suspiciously 
round.  "These  walls  may  have  care.  I  know,  that  they  con- 
tain one,  whom  you  would  not  much  like  vO  trust  with  your 
secrets." 

"  How— Is  A«  here  ?" 

"  You  know  whom  I  mean  ?" 

"  Robert  Moncton  ?     He  passed  me  on  the  road." 

"  Did  he  recognize  you  ?" 

•*  I  think  not.     His  hat  was  slouched  over  his  forehead  ;  his 


kn 

is 
tri 

W€ 

we 
roi 

OCi 

wl 


Wl 

mi 
an 
br 
.to 
ro 
dii 
m< 
so 

at 

be 
th 
to 


lu 


TUR    UONCTONS. 


82a 


eyes  beut  moodily  ou  the  groaud.  Besides,  Oeorge,  1  am  so 
greatly  altered  by  my  long  illness  ;  I  am  sarprised  that  you 
knew  me  again." 

"Love  and  hatred,  are  great  sharpeners  of  the  memory.  U 
is  as  hard  to  forget  au  enemy  as  a  friend.  But  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  Geoff,  I  had  to  look  at  you  twice  before  I  knew  who  you 
were.  But  coma  up  stairs — I  have  a  nice  snug  room,  where 
we  can  chat  in  privtite  whilst  dinner  is  preparing." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  what  brings  Robert  Moncton  this 
road," — and  I  flung  my  weary  length  upon  a  craey  old  sofa,  that 
occupied  a  place  in  the  room  more  for  ornament  than  use,  and 
whose  gay  chintz  cover,  like  charity,  hid  a  multitude  of  defects. 
"  No  good  I  fear." 

"  I  cannot  exactly  teli.  There  is  sou*  new  scheme  in  the 
wind.  Harry  Bell,  who  fills  my  old  plaje  in  his  office,  informed 
me  that  a  partial  reconciliation  had  tak'tn  place  between  father 
and  son.  This  was  by  letter,  for  no  personal  interview  had 
brought  them  together.  Theophilus  was  on  his  way  to  Monc- 
jtou,  and  appointed  the  old  rascal  to  meet  him  somewhere  on  the 
road.  What  the  object  of  their  meeting  may  be,  time  alone  can 
discover.  Perhaps,  to  discover  Dinah  North's  place  of  conceal- 
ment, or  to  ascertain  if  the  old  hag  be  dead.  Her  secresy  on 
some  points  of  their  history  is  a  matter  of  great  moment. 

"  They  are  a  pair  of  precious  scoundrels,  and  their  confeder- 
ation portends  little  good  to  me." 

"  You  need  not  care  a  rush  for  them  now,  Geoffrey,  you  are 
beyond  the  reach  of  their  malice.  Moncton  is  not  aware  of 
the  return  of  Walters.  This  circumstance  will  be  a  death-blow 
to  his  ambitious  hopes.  How  devoutly  they  must  have  wished 
you  in  Heaven  during  your  iri.;es8." 

"  At  one  time,  1  almost  wished  myself  there." 

"  You  were  not  too  ill  to  forget  your  frievid,  Geoffrey,"  and 
he  rose  and  pressed  my  hand  warmly  between  bis  own.    "  How 


wm 


mmm 


S24 


T  H  K     M  O  N  C;  T  O  \  9  . 


can  I  thank  you  sufficiently  for  you  disinterested  kindness.  Bj 
your  generous  sacrifice  of  self  you  have  made  me  the  happiest 
of  men.  I  am  now  on  my  way  to  Elm  Grove  to  meet  one, 
whom  I  never  hoped  to  meet  iu  tliis  world  again." 

"  Say  nothing  about  it,  George.  The  sacrifice  may  be  less 
disinterested  than  you  imnginc — I  no  longer  regret  it,  and  um 
heartily  glad  that  I  have  l)ecn  in.strumentnl  to  this  joyful  change 
in  yonr  prospects." 

"  But  why,  my  good  fellow,  did  you  conceal  from  me  the  name 
of  the  beloved.  Had  yon  candidly  told  me  who  the  lady  was, 
I  should  not  have  wounded  by  my  coldness  a  dear  and  faitiiful 
heart." 

'  Yonr  mind  was  so  occupied  by  the  image  of  Kate  Lee — I 
dared  not." 

"  It  would  have  saved  me  a  deal  of  misery." 
"  And  destroyed  our  friendship." 

"  Yon  don't  know  me,  George;  honesty  would  have  been  the 
best  policy,  as  it  always  is,  in  all  cases.  I  could  have  given  up 
Kate  when  I  knew  that  she  loved,  and  was  beloved  by,  my 
friend.  Your  want  of  candor  and  confidence  may  have  been 
the  means  of  destroying  Margaretta  Moucton." 

"  Do  not  look  so  dreadfully  severe,  Geoffrey.  1  admit  that 
truth  is  the  best  guide  of  all  our  actions.  It  was  ray  love  for 
yon,  however,  which  led  me  to  disguise  the  name  of  Catherine 
Lee.  You  don't  know  what  a  jealous  fellow  yon  are,  and,  at 
that  time,  you  were  too  much  excited  and  too  ill  to  hear  the 
truth.  What  I  did  for  the  best  has  turned  rut,  as  it  sometimes 
does,  quite  contrary  to  my  wishes.  You  must  forgive  me, 
Geoffrey.  It  is  the  first  time  I  ever  deceived  you,  and  it  will  be 
the  last." 

He  took  my  hand  and  looked  earnestly  into  my  face,  with 
those  mild,  melancholy  eyes.  To  be  angry  long  with  him  was 
impossible.     It  was  far  more  easy  to  be  angry  with  myself  ;  so, 


I  t 

no 
] 

my: 
riot 
son 

I 
leth 
not 
lips 
anx 
win( 
old 
flow 

Y 
occa 
disci 

you. 
« 

I  wi 

<i 

Do  3 


an  It 

heav 

spirit 

li 

II  r 

you? 

"] 

to  tfa 


THE     MUNCTONS. 


ii2t 


le  happiest 
meet  one, 

ay  be  less 
it,  niid  um 
ful  change 

I  the  name 

lady  was, 

id  faitliful 

te  Lee — I 


!  been  the 
5  given  up 
ed  by,  my 
have  been 

idmit  that 
ly  love  for 
Catherine 
'c,  and,  at 

bear  the 
sometimes 
rgive  me, 

it  will  be 

face,  with 
L  him  was 
irself;  so, 


I  told  him  that  I  forgave  him  from  my  very  heart,  and  would 
no  longer  harbor  against  him  en  unkind  thought. 

I  was  still  far  from  well,  low-spirited  and  out  of  humor  with 
myself  and  the  whole  world.  I  felt  depressed  with  the  myste- 
rious and  unaccountable  dejection  of  mind,  which  often  precedes 
some  unlooked-for  calamity. 

In  vain  were  all  my  efforts  to  rouse  myself  from  this  morbid 
lethargy.  The  dark  cloud  that  weighed  down  my  spirits  would 
not  be  dispelled.  I  strove  to  be  gay ;  the  laugh  died  upon  my 
lips  or  was  choked  by  involuntary  sighs.  Qcorge,  who  was 
anxiously  watching  my  countenance,  rose  and  walked  to  the 
window— and,  tired  of  my  uneasy  position  on  the  hard,  crazy, 
old  sofa— and  willing  to  turn  the  current  of  my  thoughts  from 
flowing  in  such  a  turbid  bed— I  followed  his  example. 

We  stood  for  a  while  in  silence,  watching  the  groups  which 
occasionally  gathered  beneath  the  archway  of  the  little  inn,  to 
discuss  the  news  of  the  village. 

"You  are  not  well,  »Jeoffrey.  Your  journey  has  fatigued 
you.     Lie  down  and  rest  for  a  few  hours." 

"  Sleep  is  out  of  the  question,  in  my  present  feverish  state. 
I  will  resume  my  journey." 

"  What,  in  the  face  of  the  storm  that  is  rapidly  gathering  I 
Do  you  see  that  heavy  cloud  in  the  northwest  ?" 
"  I  am  not  afraid  of  thunder." 

"  It  has  a  particular  effect  upon  some  people.  It  gives  me 
an  intolerable  headache,  hours  before  it  is  even  apparent  in  the 
heavens.  To  this  cause  I  attribute  your  sudden  depression  of 
spirits." 

I  shook  my  head  sceptically. 

"Then,  do  tell  me,  dear  Geoff,  what  it  is  that  disturbs 
you  ?" 

"My  own  thoughts.  Do  not  laugh,  George.  These  things 
to  the  sufferer  are  terrible  realities.    I  am  oppressed  by  melan- 


i^- 


1      IT 
1      II 


326 


T  H  K     M  O  N*  C  T  «  N  S  , 


choly  auticipatioiis  of  evil.  A  itaiiifiil  coiiHcioiisi)e.ss  ui' approach- 
ing sorrow."  I  have  oxperieuued  this  often  before,  but  never 
to  such  an  extent  as  to-day.  Let  me  have  my  own  way.  It  is 
good  for  me  to  combat  with  the  evil  genius  alone." 

*'  I  think  not.  Duty  compels  us  to  combat  with  such  feelings. 
The  indulgence  of  them  tends  to  shake  our  reliance  on  the 
mercy  of  God,  and  to  render  us  unhappy  and  discontented." 

"  This  is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  mind  which  we  cannot  com- 
prehend. The  links  which  unite  the  visible  with  the  invisible 
world.  But  whether  they  have  their  origin  from  above  or 
lieneath  is,  to  me,  very  doubtful — unless  such  presentiments  ope- 
rate as  a  warning  to  saun  impending  danger. 

"  I  hear  no  admonitory  voice  witliiii.  All  is  dark,  still  and 
heavy,  like  the  black  calm  that  slumbers  in  the  dense  folds 
of  yon  tbuuder-clond ;  as  if  the  mind  was  suddenly  deprived  of 
all  vital  energy,  and  crouched  beneath  an  overwhelming  con- 
Bciousness  of  horror." 

George  gave  me  a  sudden  sidelong  scrutinizing  glance,  as  if 
he  suspected  my  recent  accident  had  impaired  my  reason. 

A  vivid  flash  of  lightning,  followed  by  a  sudden  crash  of  thun- 
der, made  us  start  some  paces  back  from  the  window,  and  a 
horseman  dashed  at  full  speed  into  the  inn  yard. 

Another  blinding  flash— another  roar  of  thunder,  which 
seemed  to  fill  the  whole  earth  and  heavens,  made  me  involun- 
tarily close  my  eyes,  when  an  exclamation  from  George — "Good 
heavens,  what  an  escape  1"— made  me  as  quickly  hurry  to  the 
window. 

The  lightning  had  struck  down  the  horse  aud  rider  whom  we 
bad  before  observed.    The  nobler  animal  alone  was  slain. 

The  avenging  bolt  of  heaven  had  passed  over  and  left  the 
head  of  the  miscreant,  Theophilus  Moncton,  unscathed. 

Litid  with  recent  terror,  and  not  over-pleased  with  the  loss 
of  the  fine  animal  at  his  feet,  he  cast  a  menacing  glance  at  the 


TBH 


low** 

SOtlll 

Kitdcll 
from 
luck. 

"Ba( 

son  " 

"( 

give  1 

"1 

de[irn 

such 

Thi 

overs] 

bd  de 

mined 

admit 

Ail 

The  8 

of  kn 

brisk 

silent, 

loud  ) 

our  al 

The 

fro,  cc 

MoncI 

Idivo  ) 

uncle 

awful  I 

«Ii 

Go,  ai 

may  w 


flW- 


TH  K     MONOTONS. 


m 


upproaoh- 
but  never 
ay.    It  is 

;h  feeliugH. 
ce  on  the 
uted." 
inuot  com- 
e  invisible 
above  or 
inents  ope- 

;,  still  and 
onse  folds 
eprived  of 
Iming  cou- 

uice,  as  if 
son. 

si)  of  tbun- 
low,  and  a 

der,  which 
ae  involan- 
e— "Good 
irry  to  the 

r  whom  we 

ilaiu. 

nd  left  the 

id. 

th  the  loss 

iuce  at  the 


Inneiing  sky  above,  and  bidding  the  ostler  with  an  oath  (which 
souiuied  like  double  blasphemy  in  onr  ears)  to  take  care  of  the 
sutiflle  and  bridle,  lie  entered  the  inn,  shaking  the  mud  and  rain 
from  liis  garments,  and  mattering  indistinct  curses  on  his  ill- 
luck. 

"  The  blasphemous  wretch  I"  I  cried,  drawing  a  long  breath. 
"  Bad  as  the  futiier  is,  he  is  an  angel  when  eorapared  with  the 
son  " 

"  Geoffrey,  he  is  what  the  father  has  made  him.  I  would 
give  much  to  witness  the  meeting." 

"Yon  would  see  a  frightful  picture  of  human  guilt  and 
depravity.  Half  his  fortune  would  scarcely  bribe  me  to  witness 
such  a  revolting  scene." 

The  rain  was  now  pouring  in  torrents,  and  one  inky  hue  had 
overspread  the  whole  heavens.  Finding  that  we  were  likely  to 
bd  detained  some  hours,  George  ordered  dinner,  ond  we  deter- 
mined to  make  ourselves  as  comfortable  as  circumstances  would 
admit. 

All  our  effort.<  to  provoke  mirth,  however,  proved  abortive. 
The  silence  of  our  meal  was  alone  broken  by  the  dull  clattering 
of  knives  and  forks,  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bell  to  summon  the 
brisk  waiter  to  bring  wine  and  draw  the  cloth.  But  if  we  were 
silent,  an  active  spirit  was  abroad  in  the  house,  and  voices  in 
loud  and  vehement  altercation  in  the  room  adjoining,  arrested 
oirr  attention. 

The  muttered  curse,  the  restless,  impatient  walking  to  and 
fro,  convinced  us  that  the  parties  were  no  other  than  Robert 
Moncton  and  his  son,  and  that  their  meeting  was  not  likely  to 
have  a  very  amicable  termination.  At  length,  the  voice  of  my 
uncle  in  a  terrib.e  state  of  excitement,  burst  forth  with  this 
awful  sentence : 

"  I  discard  yon,  sir  I    Prom  this  day  yoa  cease  to  be  my  son. 

Go,  and  take  my  cnrse  along  with  you  I    Go  to I  and 

may  we  never  meet  in  time  or  eternity  again." 


'•jI 

I 


I 


It 


328 


THE     UONITONS. 


With  a  bitter,  sueering  laugh  the  diHiuherited  replied.  "In 
heaven  we  shall  never  meet  ;  on  earth,  perhaps,  we  may  meet 
too  soon.  In  tlie  place  to  which  you  have  so  unceremoniously 
sent  me,  I  can  perceive  some  lingering  remains  of  paternal 
aSfection — that  where  you  are,  I  may  be  also." 

"Hold  your  tongue,  sir.  Di -e  you  to  bandy  words  with 
me  ?" 

"  It  wouM  be  wisdom  in  you,  my  moat  righteous  progenitor, 
to  Iribc  me  to  do  so,  when  you  know  how  much  that  tongue 
can  reveal." 

luothcr  sneering  derisive  laugh  iVwiu  the  son,  of  fiendish 
exultation,  and  a  deep,  hollow  gioan  from  Uie  father,  and  the 
unhallowed  conference  was  over. 

Some  one  pass .i  the  door  with  rapid  steps.  I  walked  to  the 
window  as  Theophilus  emerged  into  the  court-yard  below.  He 
raised  his  eyes  to  the  window  ;  I  met  their  dull,  leaden  stars  ; 
he  started  and  stoj^ped  ;  I  turned  contemptuously  away. 

Presently  after  we  heard  him  bargaining  for  a  horse  to  carry 
him  as  far  as  York  on  his  way  lo  London. 

"I  don't  envy  Egbert  Moncton's  feelings,"  said  George. 
"  What  can  have  been  the  cause  of  this  violent  quarrel  1" 

"  It  may  spring  from  several  causes.  His  son's  marriage 
alone  would  be  sufficient  to  exasperate  a  man  of  his  malig- 
nant disposition.  But  look,  Harrison,  the  clouds  are  parting 
in  the  west.  The  moon  rises  early,  and  we  shall  have  a  lovely 
night  after  the  raiu  for  our  j-^arney  to  York." 

"  Our — I  was  going  by  the  coach  which  passes  through  the 
village  in  an  hour  to  Elm  Grovs.  But  nov/ 1  think  of  it,  I  will 
postpone  my  visit  until  the  morrow,  and  accompany  you  a  few 
miles  on  your  way." 

"  I  should  be  delighted  with  your  company,  George,  bnt " — 

"  You  would  rather  be  alone,  nursing  these  gloorr.y  thoughts  V* 

"  Not  exfiCtly.    But  it  will  postpone  your  visit  to  Miss  Lee." 
'  Only   a   few  hours  ;  and   as  I  wrote  yesterday  and  never 


THii;     UONCTONS. 


a-j6 


ied.  "In 
may  meet 
imoniously 
■  paternal 

rords  with 

n-ogenitor, 
lat  tongue 

of  fiendish 
ir,  and  the 

Iked  to  the 

lelow.     He 

deu  stars ; 

ray. 

se  to  carry 

id  George, 
el  ?" 

marriage 

his  malig- 

re  parting 

ive  a  lovely 

ilirough  the 
of  it,  I  will 
you  a  few 

re,  but"— 
thoughts  r 
Miss  Lee." 
and  never 


mentioned  my  visit,  which  way  a  sudden  whim — one  of  your  odd 
presentiments ,  Geoffrey,  which  seemed  to  comf>el  me  nlmust 
against  my  will  to  come  here — she  cannot  be  disappointed.  To 
tell  you  the  truth,  I  did  not  like  the  look  with  which  your 
cousin  rpcognizt'd  you.  When  rogues  are  abroad  it  behovcK 
honest  men  to  keep  close  together.  1  am  determined  to  see 
yon  safe  to  York." 

I  was  too  much  pleased  with  the  proposal  to  raise  any 
obstacles  in  the  way.  We  fell  into  cheerful  conver-sution,  and 
whilst  watching  the  clearing  up  of  the  weather,  we  saw  Robert 
Moncton  mount  his  horse  and  ride  out  of  the  Inn-yard. 

"Tlic  sun  is  breaking  through  the  clouds,  George.  It  is 
time  we  were  upon  the  road." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  he  ;  and  a  few  minutoH  after  we 
were  upon  our  journey. 

The  freshness  of  the  air  after  the  heavy  rains,  the  delicious 
perfume  of  the  hedge-rows,  and  the  loud  clear  notes  of  the  black- 
bird resounding  from  the  bosky  dells  in  the  lordly  plantations 
skirting  the  road,  succeeded  in  restoring  my  animal  spirits. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  tranquillity  of  the  lovely  evening. 
George  often  checked  his  horse  and  broke  out  into  enthusiastic 
exclamations  of  delight  whilst  pointing  out  to  me  the  leading 
features  in  the  beautiful  country  through  which  we  were  travel- 
ling. 

"  Where  are  your  gloomy  forebodings  now,  Geoffrey  ?" 

"  This  glorious  scene  has  w(;ll-uigh  banished  them.  Nature 
has  always  such  an  exhilarating  effect  upon  my  mind  that  I  can 
hardly  feel  miserable  while  the  sun  shines." 

George  turned  towards  me  his  kindling  eyes  and  aukoated 
countenance 

"  Geoffrey,  I  have  siot  felt  so  happy  as  I  do  this  evening, 
since  I  was  a  little,  gay,  light-hearted  boy.  I  could  sing  aloud 
in  the  joyoosness  of  hope  and  pleasing  anticipation.     In  this 


/^l 


■mmm 


810 


THR     MONCTON8. 


resp«ct  ray  feelings  daring  the  day  have  been  qiiito  ilia  opposite 
of  yours.  I  reproach  myself  for  not  being  able  to  sympathise 
in  your  nervously  depressed  state  of  mind." 

"  Your  being  sad,  George,  would  not  increase  my  cheerfulness. 
The  quiet  serenity  of  the  hour  has  operated  upon  me  like  a 
healing  balm.  I  can  smile  at  my  superstitioos  fears,  now  that 
the  dark  cloud  is  clearing  from  my  mind." 

Thus  we  rode  on,  chatting  with  the  familiarity  of  long-tried 
friendship,  discussing  our  past  trials,  present  feelingn,  and  future 
prospects,  until  the  moon  rose  brightly  on  our  path  ;  uiid  we 
pushed  onr  horses  to  a  quicker  pace,  in  order  to  reach  the  city 
before  midnight. 

The  road  we  were  travelling  had  been  cut  through  u  steep 
bill.  The  banks  on  eitbor  side  were  very  high,  and  crowned  with 
plantations  of  pine  and  fir,  that  cast  iu»,o  deep  shadow  the  space 
between.  The  hill  was  terminated  by  a  large  deep  gravel  pit, 
through  the  centre  of  which  our  path  lay — and  the  opposite  rise 
of  the  hill,  which  was  destitute  of  trees,  lay  gleaming  brightly 
in  the  mooshine. 

As  we  gained  the  woodnsrowned  height,  we  perceived  a  horse- 
man slowly  riding  down  the  steep  before  os.  His  figure  was 
HO  blended  with  the  dark  shadows  of  the  descending  road,  that 
tlie  clicking  of  his  horse's  hoofs,  and  the  moving  mass  of  deeper 
shade  alone  proclaimed  his  proximity. 

"  This  is  a  gloomy  spot,  George.  I  wish  we  were  fairly  out 
uf  it." 

"  Afraid,  Geoffrey — and  two  to  one  ?" 
"  No,  not  exactly  afraid  ;  but  this  spot  wonld  be  lonely  at 
noonday.     Look — look  1   George,   what    mabes   that    man  so 
suddenly  check  his  horse  as  he  gains  the  centre  of  the  pit  and 
emerges  into  the  moonlight  7" 

-'Silence  I"  cried  George.  "  That  was  the  report  of  a  pistol. 
Follow  me  !" 


1 

hill. 
T 

we  I 

the 

D 

assii 

low 
ii 

head 

morl 

II 

feat) 
star! 
to  tt 

It 
onkr 
a  gl 
posil 

III 

Mon 

natu 

full 

prosi 

Btrea 
II , 

stani 
must 
the  ; 
any  i 
H 
bono 
befoi 


r  H  R      M  O  N  I!  T  II  N'  rt  . 


381 


irnipatliize 

lurfiilnesa. 
ne  like  a 
now  that 

luiig-triecl 
iiid  future 
;  uud  we 
h  the  city 

h  u  steep 
nrned  with 
the  space 
;rarel  pit, 
poBite  rise 
5  brightly 

d  a  horse- 
figure  was 
road,  that 
of  deeper 

fairly  oat 


I  lonely  at 
b  man  so 
^he  pit  and 

)f  a  pistol. 


We  fiporred  our  homes  to  full  speed  and  galloped  down  the 
hill. 

The  robbers,  if  indeed  any  wore  near,  had  disappeared,  and 
we  found  the  man  whom  we  had  previously  observ(!d,  rolling  on 
the  ground  in  great  agony,  and  weltering  in  blood. 

Dismounting  from  our  horses,  we  ran  immediately  to  his 
assistance.  Ue  raised  his  head  as  we  approached,  and  said  in  a 
low  hollow  Toice, — 

"  I  am  shot,  I  know  the  rascul,  ho  cannot  escape.  Raise  my 
head,  I  feel  choking — a  little  higher.  The  wound  may  not  be 
mortal,  I  may  live  to  be  revenged  upon  him  yet." 

"The  sound  of  that  voice—the  sight  of  those  well-known 
features,  rendered  me  powerless.  1  stood  mute  and  motionless, 
staring  upon  the  writhing  and  crushed  wretch  before  me,  unable 
to  render  him  the  least  assistance. 

It  was  my  uncle  who  lay  bleeding  there,  slain  by  some 
unknown  hand.  A  horrible  thought  flashed  through  my  brain  ; 
a  ghastly  sickness  came  over  me  and  I  stifled  the  unnatural  sup- 
position. 

In  the  meanwhile  Harrison  had  succeeded  in  raising  Mr. 
Moncton  Into  a  sitting  posture,  and  had  partly  ascertained  the 
nature  of  his  wound.  Whilst  thus  employed,  the  moon  shone 
full  upon  his  face,  and  my  uncle,  uttering  a  cry  of  terror,  fell 
prostrate  on  the  ground,  whilst  the  blood  gushed  in  a  dark 
stream  from  his  wounded  shoulder. 

"  Geoffrey,"  and  George  beckoned  me  to  come  to  him,  "don't 
stand  shaking  there  like  a  person  in  an  ague  fit.  Something 
must  be  done,  and  that  immediately,  or  your  uncle  will  die  on 
the  road.  Mount  the  high  bank,  and  see  if  you  can  discover 
any  dwelling  nigh  at  hand,  to  which  he  can  be  conveyed." 

His  voice  broke  the  horrid  trance  in  which  my  senses  were 
bound.  I  sprang  up  the  steep  side  of  the  gravel  pit,  and  saw 
before  me  a  marshy  meadow,  and  not  far  from  the  road,  a  light 


■mm 


ysfl 


THiC     MOVOTONI, 


glimmered  from  a  cabin  window.  It  was  a  wretclied  lookiiif* 
place,  but  the  only  habitation  in  sight,  nearer  than  i.no  village, 
whose  church  spire,  about  two  miles  diHtant,  glimmered  in  tiie 
moonbeams.  Turning  our  horses  loose  to  graze  in  the  meadow, 
we  lifted  a  gate  from  the  hinges,  and  placing  the  now  inseiiMible 
lawyer  upon  this  rough  litter,  which  we  covered  with  our  tra- 
velling cloaks,  we  succeeded  with  muc-h  difficulty,  and  after  a 
considerable  lapse  of  time,  in  reaching  the  tnlHerablo  hovel. 

On  the  approach  of  footsteps,  the  persons  within  extinguished 
the  light,  and  for  some  time  we  continued  rapping  at  the  door 
without  receiving  any  answer. 

I  soon  lost  all  patience,  and  began  to  hollo  and  shout  in  the 
hope  of  provoking  attention.. 

Another  long  pause. 

"  Open  the  door,"  I  cried,  "a  man  has  been  shot  on  the  road; 
he  will  die  withoat  assistance." 

A  window  in  the  thatch  slowly  unclo.sed,  and  a  hoarse  female 
voice  croaked  forth  in  reply : 

"  What  concern  is  that  of  mine  ?  Who  are  you  who  disturb 
honest  folk  at  this  hour  of  the  night  with  your  drunken  clamors  ? 
My  house  is  my  castle.  Begone,  I  tell  you  I  I  wi:l  not  come 
down  to  let  yon  in." 

"  Dinah  North,"  said  Harrison,  solemnly,  "  I  have  a  message 
for  you,  which  you  dare  not  gainsay — I  command  you  to  unbar 
the  door  and  receive  us  instantly." 

This  speech  was  answered  by  a  wild  shrill  cry,  more  resem- 
bling the  bowl  of  a  tortured  dog  than  any  human  sound.  1  felt 
the  blood  freeze  in  my  veins.  Harrison  whispered  in  my 
ear, — 

"  She  will  obey  my  summons,  which  she  believes  not  one  of 
earth.  Stay  with  yonr  uncle,  while  J  ride  forward  to  the  village 
to  procure  medical  aid,  and  make  a  deposition  before  the  magis- 
trate of  what  has  occurred.    Don't  let  the  fiend  know  that  I  am 


alive, 
still  I 

It 
he  hi 
horst; 

W 
thou[ 
of  Ri 

'M 

Th 
next 

•'( 
that 
conipi 

"I 
"Loc 

Shi 
mass, 
ghost 
her  b( 

"E 

"ii 

to  ku( 

"H 

rible 

weltei 

damp! 

sight 

morta 

"Y 

sinned 

the  wi 

"H 

Let  nf 


TlIK     MONOTONS. 


8M 


alive.    It  is  of  the  utmoat  importance  to  uh  uII,  tliut  hIic  should 
still  bulievo  me  dead." 

I  triud  to  detuiti  liitu,  uot  much  liking  my  pruHcat  position;  but 
he  hud  vanished,  and  shortly  after  1  heard  the  clatter  of  bia 
horse's  hoofs  galloping  at  full  speed  towards  the  town. 

What  a  fearful  termination  of  my  gloomy  presentimeats, 
thought  1,  as  1  looked  dowu  at  the  livid  fauu  and  prostrate  form 
of  Robert  Monctou. 

"  Whore  will  this  frightful  scene  end?" 
The  gleam  of  a  light  flashed  across  the  broken  casement  j  the 
next  moment  Dinah  North  stood  before  me. 

"  Geoffrey  Moneton,  is  this  you  ?"  There  was  another  voice 
that  spoke  to  me — a  voice  from  the  grave.  "  Where  is  your 
companion  ?" 

"  I  am  alone  with  the  dead,"  I  said,  pointing  to  the  body. 
"  Look  there  1" 

She  held  up  the  ligtit  and  bent  over  that  insensible  bleeding 
mass,  and  looked  long,  and  I  thought  triumphautly,  at  the 
ghastly  face  of  the  accomplice  in  all  her  crimes.     Then  turning 
her  hollow  eyes  on  me,  she  said  calmly  : 
"Did  you  murder  him  ?" 

"  No,  thank  God,  I  am  guiltless  of  his  blood  ;  but  he  seems 
to  know  the  hand  that  dealt  the  blow." 

"  Ha,  ha  I"  shrieked  the  hag,  "  my  dream  was  true— my  ho^ 
rible  dream.  Even  so,  last  night,  I  saw  Robert  Moncton 
weltering  in  his  blood,  and  my  poor  Alice  was  wiping  the  death- 
damps  from  his  brow  ;  and  I  saw  more— more,  but  it  was  a 
sight  for  the  damned — a  sight  which  cannot  be  repeated  to 
mortal  ears. 

"  Yes,  Robert  Moncton,  it  is  all  up  with  you ;  we  have 
sinned  together  and  must  both  drink  of  that  fiery  cup.  I  know 
the  worst  now." 

"  Hush  I  he  moves — ho  still  lives.  He  may  yet  recover. 
Let  us  carry  him  into  the  house." 


sa4 


THE     UONCTHNS. 


"  He  bas  troubled  the  earth  and  your  father's  house  long 
enough,  Geoffrey  Moncton,"  said  the  strange  woman,  in  a  soft- 
ened,  and  1  thought,  melancholy  tone.  "  It  is  time  that  both 
he  and  I  received  the  reward  of  our  misdeeds." 

She  assisted  me  to  carry  the  body  into  the  house,  and  strip- 
ping off  the  clothes,  we  laid  it  upon  a  lov  flock  bed,  which 
occupied  one  corner  of  the  miserable  apartment,  over  which  she 
threw  a  coarse  woollen  coverlid. 

She  then  examined  the  wound  with  a  critical  eye,  and  after 
washing  it  with  brandy  she  said  that  the  ball  could  be 
extracted,  and  she  thought  that  the  wound  was  not  mortal  and 
might  be  cured. 

Tearing  his  neckcloth  uito  band^^es,  she  succeeded  in  staunch- 
ing  the  blood,  and  diluting  some  ol  the  brandy  with  water,  she 
washed  the  face  of  the  wounded  man,  and  forced  a  few  spoonfals 
down  his  throat 

Drawing  a  long,  deep  sigh,  Robert  Moncton  unclosed  his 
eyes.  For  some  minutes  they  rested  unconsciously  upon  us. 
Recollection  slowly  returned,  and  recoiling  from  the  touch  of 
that  abhorrent  woman,  he  closed  them  again  and  groaned 
heavily. 

"  We  have  met,  Robert,  in  an  evil  hour.  The  friendship  of 
the  wicked  brings  no  comfort  in  the  hour  of  death  or  in  the  day 
of  judgment." 

"  Avauut,  witch  I  The  sight  of  your  hideous  face  is  worse 
than  the  pangs  of  death.  Death,'  he  repeated  slowly—" I  am 
not  near  death — I  will  not  die — I  caimot  die." 

"  You  dare  not !"  said  Dinah,  in  a  low,  malignant  whisper. 

"  Is  this  cowardly  dastard  the  pr  ^ud,  wealthy  Robert  Mono- 
ton,  wbc  liiought  to  build  up  his  house  by  murder  and  treachery? 
Methinks  this  is  a  noble  apartment  and  a  fitting  couch  for  the 
body  of  Sir  Robert  Moncton  to  lie  in  state." 

"  Mocking  fiend  !  what  pleasure  can  you  find  in  my  misery  ?" 

"  Much,  much oh,  hovv  w»cU.     It  is  not  fair  that  I  should 


4.„ 


loase  long 

,  in  a  soft- 

that  both 

,  and  strip- 
bed,  which 
-which  she 

I,  and  after 

could    be 

mortal  and 

in  staaach- 
water,  she 

wi 


nclosed  his 
J  upon  U8. 
s  touch  of 
id  groaned 

iendship  of 
>  in  the  day 

oe  in  worse 
ly_"  I  am 

whisper. 
>bert  Mono- 
I  treachery? 
)ach  for  the 

jy  misery  ?" 
at  I  should 


T  11  K      M  O  N  C  T  O  N  S  . 


335 


bear  ibe  tortures  of  the  damned  aloue.  Since  the  death  of  th« 
uiily  thing  I  ever  loved  I  have  had  strange  thoughts  and  terrible 
visiuiis ;  restless,  burning  nights  and  fearful  days.  But  I 
vuiiiiot  repent  or  wish  undone  that  which  is  done.  1  can 
neither  weep  nor  pray ;  I  can  onl/  curse — bitterly  curse  thee 
und  tiiiue.  I  rejoice  to  see  this  hour — to  know  that  i3efore  I 
depart  to  your  Master  and  mine,  the  vengeance  of  my  soul  will 
be  satisfied." 

"  Geoffrey,  I  implore  you  to  drive  that  beldame  firom  tho 
room.  The  sight  of  her  hideous  face  and  her  ominous  croaking 
will  drive  me  mad." 

'•Uncle,  do  not  exhaust  your  strength  by  answering  her. 
She  is  not  in  her  right  senses.  In  a  few  minutes  my  friend  will 
jfturu  with  surgical  aid,  and  we  will  get  you  removed  to  more 
comfortable  lodgings  in  the  village." 

"Do  not  deceive  yourselves,"  returned  Dinah  ;  "  from  the  bed 
on  which  he  now  lies,  the  robber  and  murderer  will  never  rise 
ugain.  As  he  has  sown,  so  must  he  reap.  He  deserves  so  ail 
kindness  at  your  hands,  Geoffrey  ?*oncton.  You  should  ratiier 
rejoice  that  the  sting  of  the  serpent  is  drawn,  and  that  he  can 
hurt  you  and  yours  no  more." 

"  Alas  1"  returned  I,  taking  the  hand  of  the  wretched  sufferer 
in  mine,  "  how  much  rather  would  I  see  him  tun;  from  his  evil 
deeds.  Rod  live  !" 

"  God  bless  you,  Geoffrey  1"  sobbed  forth  my  miserable  uncle, 
bursting  into  tears  ;  perhaps  thts  first  he  ever  shed  in  his  life. 
"  Deeply  have  I  sinned  against  you,  noble,  generous  boy.  Can 
you  forgive  me  for  m.'  past  cruelty  ?" 

"  I  can— I  do  ;  and  should  it  please  God  to  restore  you  to 
health,  I  will  prove  the  truth  of  what  I  say  by  deeds,  not  words. 
1  assure  you,  uncle,  I  leel  more  anxious  to  save  your  soul  from 
eternal  misery,  than  to  gain  any  advantage  by  your  death." 

"  Do  not  look  so  like  yonr  father,  Geoffrey.     His  son!  speaks 


1 


386 


THE     M  I)  X  0  T  O  N  )i  . 


to  me  through  yoar  eyes.  Yoar  kindness  heaps  coals  of  fire 
upon  my  head.  It  would  give  me  less  torture  to  bear  you  curse 
than  pray  for  me." 

"  Pray  for  yourself,  uncle.  I  have  never  attended  to  these 
things  as  I  ought  to  have  done.  I  am  punished  now,  when  I 
have  no  word  of  comfort  or  instruction  for  you." 

"  Pray  1"  and  he  drew  a  long  sigh.  "  My  mother  died  when 
Ned  and  I  were  boys.  We  soon  forgot  the  prayers  she  taught 
us.  My  father's  God  was  Mammon.  He  taught  me  early  to 
worship  at  the  same  shrine.  No,  Geoffrey,  no— it  is  ^oo  late  to 
pray.  I  feel— I  know  that  I  am  lost.  I  have  no  part  or  lot  in 
the  Saviour— no  love  for  God,  in  whom  I  never  believed  until 
this  fatal  hour. 

"  I  have  injured  you,  Geoffrey,  and  am  willing  to  make  all  the 
reparation  in  my  power  by  restoring  you  to  those  rights  which  I 
have  labored  so  hard  to  set  aside." 

"  Spare  yourself,  uncle,  the  painful  relation.  Let  no  thouj;l»t 
on  that  score  divert  your  mind  from  making  its  peace  with  God. 
Walters  has  returned,  and  the  documents  necessary  to  prove  my 
legitimacy  are  in  Sir  Alexander's  hands.' 

"  \7alters  returned  !"  shrieked  my  uncle.  "  Both  heaven  and 
hell  conspire  against  me.     What  a  tale  can  he  unfold." 

"  Ay,  and  what  a  sequel  can  I  add  to  it,"  said  Dinah,  rising 
from  her  seat,  and  standing  before  him  like  one  of  the  ^venging 
furies.    "  Listen  to  me,  Geoffrey  Moncton,  for  it  shall  yet  he 

told." 

"  Spare  me,  cruel  woman,  in  mercy  spare  me.  Is  not  your 
malice  sufficiently  gratified,  so  see  me  humbled  to  the  dust  ?" 

"  Ah  !  if  your  villainy  had  proved  successful,  and  you  were 
revelling  in  wealth  and  splendor,  instead  of  grovelling  there 
beneath  the  lash  of  an  awakened  conscience,  where  would  be 
your  repentance  ? 

"  What  would  then  become  of  Geoffrey  Moncton's  claims  to 


legitime 
his  day! 

"Ge* 
tongue. 

"He 
(lie  in  p 

"Yot 
Dinah, 
to  his  I 
Geoffrei 
fata  ren 
Kememi 
time  we 
value." 


W4«af^Sl»iWa>m£*'  ®«s:i*».i      iwwmssm. 


THE     MONCTONS. 


»37 


of  fire 
1  curse 

these 
rhea  I 

i  when 
taught 
r.rly  to 
late  to 
r  lot  in 
d  until 

all  the 
which  I 


legitimacy  ?  I  trow  he  wonld  remain  a  bastard  to  the  end  of 
his  days." 

"  Geoffrey,  for  God's  sake  bid  that  woman  hold  her  venomous 
tongue.     I  feel  faint  and  sick  with  her  upbraidings." 

"  He  is  fainting,"  I  said,  turning  to  Dinah.  "  Allow  him  to 
tile  in  peace." 

"Yon  are  a  fool  to  feel  the  least  trouble  about  him,"  sniil 
Dinah.  "  There,  he  is  again  insensible  ;  our  efforts  to  bring  hiu) 
to  his  senses  will  only  make  matters  worse.  Listen  to  sue, 
Geoffrey  Moncton,  1  have  a  burden  on  my  conscience  I  would 
fata  remove,  and  which  it  is  necebsary  that  you  should  know. 
Remember  what  I  told  yon  when  we  last  met.  That  the  next 
time  we  saw  each  other,  my  secret  and  yours  would  be  of  equal 
value." 


houglit 
thGod. 
■ove  my 

ven  and 

I),  rising 

venging 

yet  he 

ot  your 
ist  ?" 
ou  were 
g  there 
ould  be 


■  '.i 


[alms  to 


S^ 


Sit 


THE     M  O  K  0  T  0  M • . 


:':^ 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

Dinah's  confession. 

"  It  is  an  ill  wind,  they  pay,  Geoffrey  Monctoii,  that  blows 
DO  good  to  any  one.  Had  the  son  of  Sir  Alexander  Monctou 
UvBd  you  would  have  retained  your  original  insignificance.  It 
is  from  my  guilt  that  you  derive  a  clear  title  to  the  lands  and 
honors  which  by  death  he  lost." 

I  know  not  why,  but  as  she  said  this,  a  cold  chill  crept 
through  m  .  I  almost  wished  that  she  would  leave  the  terrible 
tale  she  had  to  tell  untold.  I  felt  that  whatever  its  import  might 
be,  that  it  boded  me  no  good. 

My  situation  was  intensely  exciting,  and  made  me  alive  to  the 
most  superstitious  impressions.  It  was  altogether  the  most 
important  epoch  m  my  life.  .  ,      ,    ,        , 

Seated  at  the  foot  of  that  miserable  bed,  the  ghastly  face  of 
the  wounded  man  just  revealed  by  the  sickly  light  of  a  miserable 
candle,  looked  stark,  rigid  and  ghost-like,  to  all  outward  appear- 
ance already  dead.  And  that  horrible  hag,  with  her  witch-like 
face,'  with  its  grim  smile,  standing  between  me  and  the  clear 
beams  of  the  moon,  that  bathed  in  a  silvery  light  the  floor  of 
that  Pqualid  room,  and  th.ew  fantastic  arabesques  over  the 
time-stained  walls-glanced  upon  me  like  some  foul  visitant 

from  the  infernal  abyss. 

The  hour  was  solemn  midnight,  when  the  dead  are  said  to 
awake  in  their  graves,  and  wander  forth  until  the  second  cwwing 
of  tho  bird  of  dawn.    I  felt  its  mysterious  influence  8t«al  over 


my  sense: 
to  shut  on 

Every 
distinctui 

"  My  t 
regard  ol 
a  per  vers 
knew  of  i 
Alexandc 
struck  wi 
which  vn 
pareiitag( 
highest  t 
charge  of 

"  Rach 
fidence  n 
infant's  HI 
upon  her 

"Rob« 
the  rentJ 
of  businei 
fragile,  p 
that  if  tl 
his  son  w 

"  I  dot 
to  his  pni 
keeper  ; 
creature- 
indiffereii 
was  a  vei 
uical  tem] 
manner,  } 
with  the 


THR   MDxcruiia. 


339 


;  blows 
[oiictou 
ce.  It 
[ids  and 

II  crept 
terrible 
rt  migbt 

e  to  the 
ic  most 

■  face  of 
]iserable 
[  appcar- 
ritch-like 
he  clear 

floor  of 
)ver  the 

visitant 

)  said  to 
1  crowing 
teal  over 


my  senses,  and  rob  me  of  my  uMual  courage,  and  I  leaut  forward, 
to  shut  out  the  ghastly  scene,  and  covered  my  lace  with  my  hands. 

Every  word  that  Dinah  uttered  fell  upon  my  ear  with  tcrribU 
distinctness,  as  she  continued  her  revelations  of  the  past. 

"  My  daughter,  Rachel,  by  sonie  strange  fatality  had  won  the 
regard  of  her  delicate  rival,  Lady  Moncton,  who  seemed  to  feci 
a  perverse  pleasure  in  loading  her  with  favors.  Whether  she 
knew  of  the  attachment  that  had  existed  between  her  and  Sir 
Alexander  is  a  secret.  Perhaps  she  did  not,  and  was  only 
struck  with  the  beauty  and  elegance  of  the  huntsman's  wife — 
which  was  certainly  very  unusual  in  »  person  of  her  humble 
parentage.  Be  that  as  it  may,  she  deemed  her  worthy  of  the 
highest  trust  that  one  woman  can  repose  in  another.  The 
charge  of  her  infant  son,  and  that  son  the  heir  of  a  vast,  estate. 

"Rachel  was  not  insensible  to  the  magnitude  of  the  cou- 
fidence  reposed  in  her ;  and  for  the  Crst  six  mouths  of  the 
infant's  life,  she  performed  her  duty  conscientiously,  and  bestowed 
upon  her  nurse-child  the  most  devoted  care. 

"  Robert  Moncton  came  to  the  Hall  at  this  time  to  receivo 
the  rentJ  of  the  estate  for  Sir  Alexander — for  he  was  his  man 
of  business.  He  saw  the  child,  and  perceived  that  it  was  a  poor, 
fragile,  puling  thing;  the  thought  entered  his  wicked  heart, 
that  if  this  weakly  scion  of  the  old  family  tree  were  removed 
his  son  would  be  heir  to  the  tide  and  lands  of  Moncton. 

"  I  don't  know  what  argument  he  made  use  of  to  win  Rachel 
to  his  purpose.  I  was  living  with  him  at  the  time  as  his  house- 
keeper ;  for  the  wife  he  had  married  was  a  poor,  feeble-minded 
creature — the  mere  puppet  of  his  imperious  will,  and  a  very 
indifferent  manager.  But  she  loved  him,  and  at  that  period  iit« 
was  a  very  handsome  man,  and  had  the  art  of  hiding  his  tyran- 
nical temper,  by  assuming  before  strangers  a  pleasiug,  dignified 
manner,  which  imposed  on  every  person  who  was  not  acquainted 
with  the  secrets  of  the  domestic  prison-house. 


1(P 


':r:  ■ 


S40 


T  ;i  E    M  0  .N  C  T  O  N  S  . 


"  llacuul  consented  to  make  away  with  the  child ;  but  o» 
the  very  night  she  had  set  apart  foi  the  perpetration  of  the 
deed,  God  smote  lier  own  lovely  boy  upon  the  breast,  and  the 
tears  of  the  distracted  mother  awoke  in  her  mind  a  conscious- 
ness of  the  terrible  sin  she  had  premeditated. 

"  To  hearts  lilie  Robert  Monctou'sand  mine  this  cU'cumstance 
would  not  have  deterred  us  from  our  purpose  ;  but  Rachel  was 
not  like  us,  hnrdened  in  guilt  or  bad,  and  unknown  to  us  both 
she  reared  the  young  heir  of  Moncton  as  her  own. 

"  It  was  strange  that  neither  of  us  suspected  the  fact. 

"  1  might  have  known,  from  the  natural  antipathy  I  felt  for 
the  ehi'd,  that  he  was  not  of  my  flesh  and  blood  ;  but  God  hid 
it  from  me,  till  Rachel  informed  me  on  her  death-bed  of  the 
deception  she  had  practised. 

"  It  was  an  important  secret,  and  I  determined  to  make  use 
of  it  to  extort  money  froiu  Robert  Moncton,  when  the  child 
should  be  old  enough  to  attract  his  attention.  I  owed  him  a 
long  grudge,  and  this  gave  me  power  to  render  him  restless  and 
miserable.  Thus  I  suflfered  George  Moncton  to  live,  to  obtain 
a  two-fold  object — the  gratification  of  Avarice  and  Revenge. 

"In  spite  of  neglect  and  harsh  treatment,_which  were  insepar- 
able from  the  deep-rooted  hatred  I  bore  him  on  his  parents' 
account,  the  hand  of  Heaven  was  extended  over  the  injured 
child. 

"  He  out-grew  the  feeble  delicacy  of  his  infancy,  and  when  he 
had  attained  his  fourth  year,  was  a  beautiful  and  intelligent 

boy. 

"  His  father,  as  if  compelled  by  powerful  natural  instinct, 
lavished  upon  him,  the  most  abundant  marks  of  favor.  Lady 
Moncton's  love  was  that  of  a  doting  mother,  which  increased 
up  to  the  period  of  her  death. 

"  The  deaiii  of  Lady  Moncton,  and  that  of  Roger  Mornington, 
followed  quickly  upon  each  other,  and  all  my  old  hopes  revive^ 


when  S 
But  vail 
has  tauj 
eon)  thi 
Rachel 
seemed  < 

"Yea 
tified  pa 
some,  cl( 
such  as 
me — a  c 
seemed  < 

"I  WJ 
that  smi: 
I  could  1 

"Hac 
ment  for 
my  cond 

"  Alic 
birth,  an 
ishment 
brother, 

"His 
never  ej 
sister.    ' 
pointed  i 

"Att 
the  man 
with  his 

A  hea 
tniuutee 
took  the 
regarded 


THB     UOKCTOMS. 


at  oa 

>f  the 
d  the 
icious« 

jtauce 
3I  waa 
i  both 


!lt  for 
ad  hid 
of  the 

(e  use 
child 
him  a 
3S  and 
obtain 
ige. 

isepar- 
arento' 
iDJared 

hen  he 
illigent 

istinct, 

Lady 

:reased 

ington, 
evivec^ 


when  Sir  Alexander  renewed  his  attentions  to  my  daughter. 
But  vain  are  the  expectations  of  the  wicked.  Bitter  experience 
has  taught  me  (though  it  took  me  a  long  life  to  learn  that  les- 
son) that  man  cannot  contend  with  God — and  my  beautiful 
Rachel  died  in  her  prime,  Just  when  my  fondest  expectations 
seemed  on  the  point  of  realization. 

"  Tears  fled  on — years  of  burning  disappointment  and  ungra- 
tified  passion.  The  little  girl  Rachel  left  to  my  care  was  hand- 
some, clever  and  affectionate,  and  I  loved  her  with  a  fierce  love, 
such  as  I  never  felt  before  for  anything  of  earth — and  she  loved 
me — a  creature  from  whose  corrupted  nature,  all  living  things 
seemed  to  start  with  abhorrence. 

"  I  watched  narrowly  the  young  heir  of  Moncton,  who  led 
that  smiling  rosebud  by  the  hand,  and  loved  her  too,  but  not  as 
I  could  have  wished  him  to  love  her. 

"  Had  I  seen  the  least  hope  of  his  ever  forming  an  attach- 
ment for  bis  beautiful  playmate,  how  different  would  have  been 
my  conduct  towards  him. 

"  Alice,  was  early  made  acquainted  with  the  secret  of  hia 
birth,  and  was  encouraged  by  me,  to  use  every  innocent  bland- 
ishment towards  him,  and  even  to  hint  that  he  was  not  her 
brother,  in  order  to  awaken  a  tenderer  passion  in  his  breast. 

"  His  heart  remained  as  cold  as  ice.  His  affections  for  Alice 
never  exceeded  the  obligations  of  nature,  due  to  her  as  bis 
sister.  They  were  not  formed  for  each  other  and,  again  disap- 
pointed in  my  ambitious  hopes,  I  vowed  his  destruction. 

"  At  this  time  Sir  Alexander  sent  him  to  school  at  York,  and 
the  man  who  lies  grovell'ng  on  that  bed,  was  made  acquainted 
with  his  existence." 

A  heavy  groan,  from  Robert  Moncton,  interrupted  for  a  few 
tninutee  the  old  woman's  narrative.  She  rose  from  her  scat, 
took  the  lamp  from  the  table,  and  bending  over  the  sorry  couch, 
regarded  the  rigid  marine  features  of  my  uncle,  with  the  sam« 


"^ 


&42 


TBK    KOrOTOMS. 


m 


"Ul 


'■II 


I 


if,' 


keen  scrutiny,  that  she  had  looked  npoa  mo  in  the  garret  of  the 
old  house  in  Hatton  Garden. 

"  It  was  but  a  p  'i»g  '  "  s  e  said,  rejumiug  her  seat. 
"  His  efti  .^  oioseu  tt  Mi  kn:.;  gib.-i  bounds." 

I  thought  othc  wise  .  i  »:  rocking  herself  to  and  fro  ou 
her  seat  for  a  short  sp..  r>ao  i  "a'^\  fixed  upon  mo  her  dark, 
searching,  fiery  eye^,  and  rebumeo      ..  tale. 

"  Robert  Moucton  bore  the  intelligence  with  more  temper 
than  I  expected.  Nor  did  he  then  projwse  any  act  of  open 
violence  towards  the  innocent  object  of  our  mutual  hatred— but 
determined  to  destroy  him  in  a  more  deliberate  and  less  danger- 
ous way.  At  that  time  I  was  not  myself  eager  for  his  death, 
for  my  poor  deluded,  lost  Alice,  had  not  thou  formed  the  ill- 
favod  attachment  to  Theophilus  Moncton,  which  ttrminuted  in 
her  broken  heart  and  early  grave— and  which,  in  fact,  has 
proved  the  de.structioa  of  all,  and  rendered  the  house  of  tlio 
destroyer  as  desolate  as  my  own. 

"  At  first  I  could  jot  believe  that  the  attachment  of  my 
poor  girl  to  Theophilus  was  sincere,  but  when  I  was  at  length 
convinced  that  both  were  in  earnest,  my  long  withered  hopes 
revived.  I  saw  her  in  idea,  already  mistress  of  the  Hall,  and 
often  in  private  called  her  Lady  Moncton. 

"I  despised  the  surly  wretch,  whom,  unfortunately,  she  only 
loved  too  well,  and  looked  upon  his  union  with  my  grandchild 
aa  a  necessary  evil,  through  which  she  could  alone  reach  the 
summit  of  my  ambitious  wishes. 

"  In  the  meanwhile,  Alice  played  her  cards  so  well  that  she 
and  her  lover  were  privately  married— she  binding  herself,  by 
a  solemn  promise,  not  to  divulge  the  secret,  even  to  me,  untU 
u  litting  of^ortunity. 

"  After  a  few  months,  her  situation  attracted  my  attention. 
I  accused  her  of  having  been  betrayed  by  her  fashionable  par* 

IUOUl% 


■   "She 

•J.iir     Si  I 

Just  al 

man.     H 

ease  woul 

slowly  nn 

"  Befoi 

bad  disec 

cajoled,  b 

with  Ali( 

ever  of  tli 

estates  an 

"  /,  for 

too  close! 

tions. 

"  Alice, 

argumentf 

to  disinhc 

again,  tht 

draught  tl 

There  w 

hoofs  in  t 

elude  her 

"  Yes,  ( 

of  treache 

of  the  inn 

terrible  ve 

"  When 

philns  Mo 

sou,  would 

don,  to  CO 

him  to  ack 

"Hew( 


THE     II  0  ■    0  T  O  K  8  . 


"3he  denied  „ue  charge — was  obBtinate  and  violent,  aod 
.nac    hitter  iaiij^uaRe  passed  betw  "n  r 

Just  at  this  period,  young  Morniiigton  returaod  to  ub,  a  ruined 
man.  He  fell  sick,  and  J'^th  Ali^e  and  myself  hoped  that  bis  dis- 
ease would  terminate  fatally.  1  i  this  we  were  disappointed.  He 
slowly  and  surely  recovered  in  sj  lite  of  our  coldness  and  neglect. 

"  Before  he  was  able  to  leave  tiis  bed,  Robert  Monctou,  who 
bad  discovered  his  victim's  ret  'eat,  paid  ub  a  visit.  ik&,  he 
cajoled,  bj  promising  to  give  hi  consent  to  his  son's  marriage 
with  Alice,  but  only  on  condiwon  of  our  uniting  to  rid  htm  for 
ever  of  the  man  who  stood  between  him  and  the  long-coveted 
eetates  and  title  of  Moncton. 

"  /,  for  my  part,  was  easily  entreated,  for  our  interests  were 
too  closely  nnited  in  his  destrnction,  for  me  to  raise  any  objec- 
tions. 

"  Alice,  however,  was  a  n'/Vice  in  crime,  and  she  resisted  his 
arguments  with  many  tears,  and  it  was  not  until  he  threatened 
to  disinherit  her  husband,  if  he  ever  dared  to  speak  to  her 
again,  that  she  reluctantly  consented  to  administer  the  fatal 
draught  that  Robert  prepared  with  his  own  hands." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  I  thought  I  heard  the  sound  of  horses' 
hoofs  in  the  distance.  Dinah  heard  it  too,  and  hastened  to  con- 
clude her  narrative. 

"  Yes,  George  Moncton  died  in  the  bloom  of  life,  the  victim 
of  treachery  from  the  very  morning  of  his  days.  But  the  cry 
of  the  innocent  blood  has  gone  op  to  the  throne  of  Qod,  and 
terrible  vengeance  has  pursued  his  murderers. 

"  When  I  discovered  that  Alice  was  the  lawful  wife  of  Theo- 
philns  Moncton,  and  that  the  child  she  carried,  if  it  proved  a 
sou,  would  be  Sir  Alexander's  heir,  I  made  a  journey  to  Lon- 
don, to  communicate  the  fact  to  Robert  Moncton,  and  to  force 
him  to  acknowledge  her  publicly  as  his  daughter-in-law. 

"  He  would  not  bclierc  me  on  my  oath — and  declared  iitat  it 


M 


m: 


TBK    MONOTONS. 


was  only  another  method  to  extort  money.  I  produced  the 
woofs  He  vowed  t»mt  they  were  base  forgerioB,  and  tore  the 
Luments,  trampling  them  under  his  feet-and  it  *"  -jyj^;; 
I  threatened  to  expose  the  murder  of  his  cousn,  that  he  coade- 
Bcended  to  listen  to  reason.  . 

"it  was  then,  for  the  first  time.  I  heard  of  your  existence, 
and  a  new  and  unforeseen  enemy,  seemed  to  start  up  and  defy  me 

'"  ™Roben  Moneton  laughed  at  my  fears,  and  told  me  how 
ingeniously  he  had  contrived  to  brand  you  with  the  st.gma  of 

*"'.?He"ould  not  however  lull  my  fears  to  rest,  until  I  was  satis- 
fled  that  Walters  had  really  placed  the  stolen  cert.fieates  m  the 
iron  chest  in  your  garret-and  late  as  it  was.  we  went  to  assure 

ourselves  of  the  fact."  ,,,...„  „oi^  T     '<  and 

"  Oh,  how  well  I  remember  that  dreadful  visit."  said  I-  and 

the  horrible  dream  that  preceded  it." 

"  You  were  awake,  then  ?" 

..  Ye  Jawake  witi  my  eyes  shut-and  heard  all  that  passed. 

"  A  true  Moncton."  and  she  shook  her  palsied  head.  The 
devil  is  in  you  all.  You  know  then,  that  our  search  was  fruit- 
tr  and  I  returned  to  Moncton  with  the  conviction,  that  we 
were  destined  to  be  defeated  in  our  machinations. 

..Six  months  after  these  events.  Alice  gave  b'f  ^^  son 
and  was  greatly  cheered  by  the  news,  which  reached  her  through 
oie  of  the  servants  at  the  Hall,  that  her  husband  had  returned 
from  Italy,  and  was  in  London." 

.^The  Sst  of  her  melancholy  history  is  known  to  me."  said  I. 

..  It  was  my  arm  that  lifted  her  from  the  water  when  she  at- 

r  ^  ?1  ap«trov  herself     Oh,  miserable  and  guilty  woman, 

iTa'tve  yout^^^^^^^^^^^     y-  ^-P-'-^  «^^«"^^  ^^  '"'^^"^  ' 
TioZ  Ch  North!  the  gibbet  awaits  you-and  your  pros- 

poets  beyond  the  grave  are  more  terrible  still. 


1 


il 


TBI    IIONOTON0. 


Mft 


il 


"  Dinah  North  will  never  die  benentli  the  gaze  of  an  indolent 
mob,"  said  the  old  woman,  with  a  sullen  laugh.  "  A  few  nionthi 
ago,  Geoffrey  Moncton,  and  I  would  have  siiffcred  the  rack, 
before  I  would  have  coiifc-ised  to  you  nnght  that  might  render 
you  a  serviec,  but  the  kindness  you  showed  to  my  unhapjiy  grand- 
cliild — awoke  in  my  breast  a  fueling  towards  you  foreign  to  my 
nature,  I  have  been  a  terrible  encny  to  your  house.  But  you, 
at  least,  should  regard  me  ag  a  friend.  Had  George  Moncton 
lived,  what  would  become  of  your  claims  to  rank  and  fortune  ?" 

"  Dinah,  be  does  live  I"  and  the  conviction  that  I  was  penni- 
less— a  poor  dependent  upon  a  noble  house,  instead  of  being  the 
expectant  heir,  pressed  at  that  moment  painfully  on  my  heart, 
"  Se«,"  I  continued,  as  the  door  opened,  and  George  attended 
by  several  persons  entered  the  house,  "he  is  here  to  assert  his 
lawful  claims.    The  grave  has  given  np  its  dead." 

The  same  wild  shriek  that  burst  ^o  frightfully  on  my  ears, 
when  George  first  addressed  the  old  woman,  rang  through  the 
apartmeat. 

"  CoDstabloB,  do  your  duty,"  said  George.  "  Instantly  secure 
that  woman." 

As  he  spoke,  the  light  was  suddenly  extinguished,  and  we 
were  left  in  darkness.  Before  the  hurry  and  bustle  of  re-kind- 
ling it  was  over,  Dinah  North  had  disappeared,  and  all  search 
after  her  proved  fruitless. 


-.1 


!•• 


I 


S4« 


THE    IIONOTONI. 


'r 


1 ; . 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

BrTBIBOTIVB    JU8TI01. 

tloBEBT  MoNCTTON  had  lain  in  a  stupor  for  the  last  hour.    The 
lurgeon  whom  George  had  brought  with  hltn  from  the  village 
after  carefully  examining  the  wound,  to.  my  Burprise.  declared 
that  it  waa  mortal,  and  that  the  sufferer  could  not  be  removed, 
as  his  life  must  terminate  in  a  few  hours. 

During  the  extraction  of  the  bullet  and  the  dressing  of  the 
wound,  Robert  Moncton  recovered  his  senses  and  self-possession, 
and  heard  his  doom  with  a  glassy  gaze  of  fixed  despair. 

Then,  with  a  deep  sigh,  he  asked  if  a  lawyer  were  present,  as 
he  wished  to  make  his  will,  and  set  his  affair,  in  order  before  he 

'  George  had  brought  with  him  a  professional  gentleman,  the 
clergyman,  and  one  of  the  chief  magistrates  in  the  village.  He 
now  introduced  to  his  notice  the  Rev.  Mr.  Chapman,  and  Mr. 

Blake,  the  solicitor. 

"When  I  require  your  offices,"  he  said,  addressing  the  former 
gentleman,  "  I  will  send  for  you.  Such  comfort  as  you  can  give 
in  the  last  hour,  will  not  atone  for  the  sins  ot  a  long  life.  Ihis 
is  one  of  the  fallacies  to  which  men  cling  when  they  can  no 
longer  help  themselves.  They  will,  however,  find  it  a  broken 
reed  when  called  upon  to  pass  through  the  dark  valley. 

"With  you,  sir,"  shaking  hands  with  Mr.  Blake,  "my  busi- 
ness lies.  Clear  the  room  till  this  matter  is  settled  ;  I  wish  U8 
to  be  alone  " 


agjfii.-jgl^aiwS'-!'^**'*"'^'"^"'''**''' 


TBI    MONOTONt. 


•4t 


The  clergyman  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  away  in  high 
dudgeon.  George  and  I  gladly  u vailed  ourselves  of  the  oppor- 
tunity  of  leaving  for  a  while  the  gloomy  chomber  of  death,  and 
taking  a  turn  iu  the  fresh  air. 

Wb  wandered  forth  into  the  clear  night ;  the  blessed  and 
benignant  aspect  of  nature  forming,  as  it  ever  does,  a  solemn, 
holy  contrast  with  the  turbulent,  restless  spirit  of  man.  Nature 
has  her  storms  and  awful  convulsions,  but  the  fruits  are  fertility, 
abundance,  rest.  The  fruits  of  our  malignant  passions  —  sin,' 
disease,  mental  and  physical  death. 

My  blighted  prospects,  in  spite  of  all  my  boasted  disinterest- 
edness,  weighed  heavily  on  my  heart.  I  tried  to  rejoice  in  my 
friend's  good  fortune,  but  human  nature  with  all  its  sins  ond 
weaknesses  prevailed.  I  was  not  then  a  Christian,  and  could 
scarcely  be  expected  to  prefer  the  good  of  my  neighbor  to  my 
own. 

Bowed  down  and  humbled  by  the  consciousness  of  all  I  had 
lost,  I  should,  had  I  been  alone,  have  shamed  my  manhood,  and 
found  relief  in  tears. 

"  Dear  Geoffrey,  why  so  silent  ?"  and  George  wrung  my  band 
with  his  usual  warmth.  "  Have  you  no  word  for  your  friend. 
This  night  has  been  one  of  severe  trial.  God  knows  how  deeply 
I  sympathize  in  your  feelings.  But  cheer  up,  my  dear  feUow ; 
better  and  brighter  moments  are  at  hand." 

"No,  no,  not  for  me,"  returned  I,  almost  choking.  "I  am 
one  of  the  unlucky  ones  ;  no  good  can  ever  happen  to  me.  My 
hopes  and  prospects  are  blighted  for  ever.  It  is  only  you, 
George  Moncton,  who,  iu  this  dark  hour,  have  reason  to 
rejoice." 

He  stopped  and  grasped  my  arm.        What  do  you  mean, 
Geoffrey,  when  you  call  me  by  that  name  T 
"  That  it  belongs  to  you." 
"  To  me  1    Has  Dinah  made  any  coafessioa  t" 


•ifmm 


S48 


THE    MONCTONS, 


"  She  has.  Have  a  little  patience,  George,  till  I  can  collect 
my  scattered  tho'^ghts,  and  tell  yon  all." 

I  then  communicated  to  him  the  conversation  that  had  passed 
between  Dinah  ind  myself,  though  my  voice  often  trembled  with 
emotion,  and  I  could  scarcely  repress  my  t^ars. 

He  beard  me  silently  to  the  end  ;  then  flinging  his  arms 
about  my  neck,  he  pressed  me  closely  to  his  heart,  and  we  wept 
.  together. 

"  Ah,  Geoffrey,  my  cousin,  my  more  than  brother  and  friend," 
he  said  at  last,  "  how  gladly  would  I  confer  npon  you,  if  it 
would  increase  your  comfort  and  happiness,  the  envied  wealth 
that  has  been  the  fruitful  cause  of  such  revolting  crimes. 

"  Ah,  mother  I"  he  continued,  looking  up  to  the  calm  heavens, 
and  raising  his  hands  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy,  "  dear,  sainted,  angel 
mother,  whom,  as  a  child,  I  recognized  and  loved,  it  is  only  on 
your  account  that  I  rejoice — yes,  with  joy  unspeakable,  that  I 
am  indeed  your  son  —  that  the  boy  you  adored  and  fondly 
cherished  was  the  child  you  sought  in  heaven,  and  wept  on 
earth  as  lost.  And  that  fine,  generous,  noble-henrted  old  man 
— how  proud  I  shall  feel  to  call  him  father,  and  recall  all  his 
acts  of  kindness  to  me  when  a  nameless  orphan  boy.  And 
Margaretta,  my  gentle  sister  —  my  best  and  earliest  friend. 
Forgive  me,  dear  Geoffrey,  if  thoughts  like  these  render  me 
happy  in  spite  of  myself.  I  only  wish  that  yon  could  partici- 
pate in  the  fallness  of  my  joy." 

.  "  I  will — I  do  t"  I  exclaimed,  ashamed  of  my  past  regrets. 
"  The  evil  spirit  oi'  envy,  George,  cast  a  dark  shadow  over  the 
sunehine  of  my  heart.  This  will  soon  yield  to  better  feelings. 
You  know  me  to  be  a  faulty  creature  of  old,  and  must  pity  and 
.excuse  my  weakness." 

Unconsciously  we  had  strolled  to  the  top  o<'  a  wild,  heathery 
common,  which  overlooked  the  marshy  meadows  below,  and  waa 
covered  with  dwarf  oaks  and  elder  bushes. 


II 


» 


»l 


THE    ItONCTONS. 


8i9 


Though  close  upon  day-break,  the  moon  was  still  bright,  and 
I  thought  I  discerned  something  which  rcGcmbled  the  sharp 
outline  of  a  human  figure,  suspended  from  the  lower  branch  of  a 
gnarled  and  leafless  tree,  the  long  hair  and  garments  fluttering 
loosely  in  the  wind. 

With  silent  horror  I  pointed  it  out  to  my  companion.  We 
both  ran  forward  and  soon  reached  th%  spot. 

Here,  between  us  and  the  full,  broad  light  of  the  moon,  hung 
the  skeleton-like  figure  of  Dinah  North  ;  her  hideous  counte- 
nance rendered  doubly  so  by  the  nature  of  her  death. 

Her  long  grey  hair  streamed  back  from  hnr  narrow  contracted 
brow;  her  eyes  wide  open  and  staring,  caught  a  gleam  from  the 
moon  that  heightened  the  malignant  expression  which  had  made 
them  terrible  to  the  beholder  while  in  life. 

Wc  neither  spoke,  but  looked  at  each  other  with  eyes  full  of  horror. 

George  sprang  up  the  tree  and  cut  down  the  body,  which  fell 
at  my  feet  with  a  dull,  heavy  sound. 

"  She  has  but  anticipated  her  fate,  Geoffrey.  Surely  the 
band  of  God  is  here." 

"  Miserable  woman  I"  I  said,  as  I  turned  with  a  shudder  from 
the  livid  corpse — "  is  this  the  end  of  all  your  ambitious  hopes  7 
Yonr  life  a  tissue  of  revolting  crimes — your  end  despair  " 

We  hurried  back  to  the  cottage  to  give  the  alarm,  and  found 
Robert  Moncton  awoke  and  in  his  senses,  though  evidently  sinking 
fast. 

"  Dinah  North  dead  1"  he  said,  "  and  by  he.'  own  voluntar,' 
act.  This  is  retributive  Justice.  She  has  been  my  evil  genius 
on  earth,  and  has  gone  before  me  to  our  appointed  place. 

"  Geoffrey  Moncton,  I  have  a  tew  words  to  say  to  you  before 
I  follow  on  her  track. 

"  I  have  injured  you  during  my  life.     I  have  however,  done" 
you  justice  now.     I  have  made  yon  my  heir  ;  the  sole  inheritor 
of  the  large  fortune  I  have  bartered  my  soul  to  r.  alize." 


■fi  ! 


850 


THE     MOKOTONS. 


ifi 


"  But,  ancle,  joa  have  a  son." 
His  face  grew  dark  ns  night. 

"  None  that  I  acknowledge  as  such.  And  mark  me,  GcoffreJ 
— he  compressed  his  lips  firmly  and  grasped  my  hand  tightly  as 
he  spoke — I  have  left  yon  this  property  on  one  condition — iliat 
you  never  bequeath  or  share  one  copper  of  it  with  that  racsal 
Theophilus  Moncton,  for 'in  such  case  it  will  benefit  neither 
party,  but  will  revert  to  your  cousin,  Margaretta  Moncton  Do 
you  hear  ?"  and  he  shook  me  vehemently. 

"  And  what  will  become  of  Theophilus  ?"  t 

He  laughed  bitterly. 

"He  will  yet  meet  with  his  deserts.  What  I  have  done  may 
seem  harsh^to  you,  Geoffrey,  but  it  is  strictly  just.  My  reasons 
for  so  doing  may  puzzle  the  world  and  astonish  professional 
men,  but  it  is  a  secret  which  never  will  be  known  until  I  meet  the 
human  monster,  who  calls  himself  my  son,  at  the  eternal  bar. 
And  may  the  curse  of  the  great  Judge  of  all  flesh,  and  my 
curse,  cleave  to  him  for  ever." 

I  shrank  back  from  him  with  feelingr  of  disgust  and  horror, 
which  1  took  no  pains  to  conceal ;  but  it  was  unnoticed  by  him. 
The  hand  relaxed  its  rigid  grasp,  the  large  icy  eyes  lost  the 
glittering  brilliancy  that  had  marked  them  through  life,  the  jaw 
fell,  and  the  soul  of  Robert  Moncton  passed  forth  from  those 
open  portals  to  its  drear  and  dread  account. 
"  He  is  dead,"  said  the  lawyer. 
I  drew  a  long  sigh. 

"  How  did  he  come  to  his  death,  young  gentleman  I" 
"  He  was  shot  from  behind  the  hedge,  as  he  rode  through  the 
pit  at  the  end  of  the  long  plantation.     He  said,  when  we  first 
found  him,  that  he  knew  the  person  who  shot  him." 

"  He  admitted  the  same  thing  to  me,  but  would  no^  mention 
the  name  of  the  assassin.     I  have  my  own  ..uspicions." 

I  bad  mine,  out  I  did  not  wish  to  hint  at  the  probability  of 


a  fact  that  ] 
left  uureveal( 
petrated  the 
open  to  conje 
est  in  the  sul 
could  be  obt 
upon  the  myt 
whereabouts 

We  were  i 
coroner's  inq 
ment  before 
mysterious  af 

Before  tbi 
filled  with  ac 
the  village  ( 
moral  worth 
the  highest  ] 
would  have  { 
the  extraordi 
son,  in  order 
in  his  house, 
domestic  snei 
the  property 

Hints  of 
wounded  my 
Blake,  who  s 
was  well  kn< 
who  or  what 
George  at  tl; 
.shot.  That  \ 
exchanged  w 

I  had  just 
the  worthy 


THE     MONCTONS. 


361 


•ej 
as 
lat 
sal 
ler 
[)o 


lay 
)n8 
nal 
the 
lar. 
my 

•or, 
im. 
the 

javr 
lose 


the 
first 

tion 

jT  of 


ft  fact  that  Robert  MonctOQ  bad  purposely,  I  have  no  doubt, 
left  uurevealed.  The  cause  of  his  death,  and  the  band  that  per* 
petrated  the  deed  have  never  been  discovered,  but  will  remain 
open  to  conjecture  as  long  as  those  live  who  feel  the  least  inter- 
est in  the  subject.  It  was  supposed,  that  important  information 
could  be  obtained  from  bis  son,  which  might  throw  some  light 
upon  the  mystery,  but  he  had  disappeared,  and  no  trace  of  his 
whereabouts  could  be  discovered. 

We  were  detained  for  several  days  at  the  village  whilst  the 
coroner's  inquest  sat  on  the  bodies,  and  we  had  made  a  state* 
ment  before  the  proper  authorities  of  all  we  knew  about  this 
mysterious  affair. 

Before  three  days  were  at  an  end,  the  public  journals  were 
filled  with  accounts  of  the  awful  tragedy  that  had  occurred  at 

the  village  of ,  in  Yorkshire;  and  the  great  talents  and 

moral  worth  of  the  murdered  lawyer  were  spoken  of  in  terms  of 
the  highest  praise,  which  certainly  astonislied  his  relations,  and 
would  have  astonished  himself  The  only  itain  012  his  character, 
the  extraordinary  manner  in  which  he  had  disinherited  his  only 
son,  in  order  to  place  a  poor  relation  who  had  been  brought  up 
in  his  house,  in  his  shoes.  It  was  evident  to  all,  the  part  this 
domestic  sneak  must  have  acted  in  the  dreadful  tragedy  to  ensure 
the  property  to  himself. 

Hints  of  a  darker  nature  were  thrown  out,  which  deeply 
wounded  my  sensitive  pride,  and  which  drew  a  reply  from  Mr. 
Blake,  who  stated,  that  Mr.  Moncton  told  him  that  the  murderer 
was  well  known  to  him,  but  he  never  would  reveal  to  any  one 
who  or  what  he  was.  That  he  left  young  Geoffrey  Moncton  and 
George  at  the  inn,  and  they  did  not  come  up  until  after  he  was 
shot.  That  the  assassin  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  himself,  but 
exchanged  words  with  him  and  met  him  face  to  face. 

I  had  just  taken  up  my  pen  to  add  ray  testimony  to  that  of 
the  worthy  Mr.  Blake,  when  the  door  of  the  room  suddenly 


;i 


mmm 


f 


I 


853 


THE    VONOTONS. 


opeued,  and  Sir  Alexander  and  his  lovely  daughter,  banished 
all  other  objects  from  my  brain. 

What  an  overflowing  of  eyes  and  hearts  succeeded  that  unex- 
pected meeting.  How  I  envied  George  the  hearty  embrace  with 
which  the  fine  old  man  received  his  newly  recovered  son.  Tiie 
tearful  joy  that  beamed  in  the  dark  eloquent  eyes  of  his  delight- 
ed sister  as  she  flung  herself  with  unrestrained  freedom  into  the 
arms  of  that  long-cherished  friend,  and  now  beloved  brother. 

My  welcome  was  not  wanting  either— Sir  Alexander  received 
me  as  another  son,  and  my  own,  my  lovely  Madge  as  something 
dearer  to  her  than  even  a  brother. 


Thk  firs 

atruck  witl 

had  made  i 

Her  eye 

brilliancy ; 

with  a  he< 

teeth  and 

face. 

I  took  h 

"  Dear  ] 

She  rais 

'•  Not  il 

"No  vfi 

You  oughl 

as  this." 

•'  Your 

more  to  d( 

nate  frienc 

"How  f 

"  Tortu 

would  pro 

that  is  all 

will  soon  1 

This  ws 


I 


TBI    MONCTOXa 


853 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 


THS   DOUBLE   BRIDAL. 


Thb  first  excitement  of  our  meeting  over,  I  was  pdnfolly 
atruck  with  the  great  alteration  that  the  absence  of  a  few  weeks 
had  made  in  the  face  of  Margaret. 

Her  eyes,  always  beautiful,  now  gleamed  with  an  nnnatnral 
brilliancy  ;  Und  her  pure,  pale  complexion,  at  times  was  flushed 
with  a  hectic  glow,  which,  contrasting  with  the  dazzling  white 
teeth  and  jetblack  hair,  gave  a  fearful  beauty  to  her  charming 

face. 

I  took  her  hand  in  mine.    It  burned  with  fever. 

"  Dear  Margaret,  are  you  ill  ?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  mine,  swimming  in  tears. 

'•  Not  ill.  Geoffrey  ;  only  a  little  weak." 

"  No  wonder,  when  you  are  in  such  a  state  of  emaciation. 
You  ought  not  to  have  let  the  death  of  Alice  bring  you  so  lovr 

as  this."  ,    , 

"Your  absence  and  long  silencQ,  dear  Geoffrey,  have  had 

more  to  do  with  my  poor  health  than  the  death  of  my  nnfortu- 

Date  friend." 

"  How  so,  dearest  V" 

"  Torturing  anxiety,  sleepless  nii;hts,  and  days  of  weeping 
would  produce  this  change  in  stronger  frames  than  mine.  But 
that  is  aU  past.  I  am  quite  well  and  happy  now.  and  Margaro. 
will  soon  be  herself  again."  *».♦•* 

This  was  accompanied  by  such  a  sad,  moonlight  smile,  that  it 


■-a 
'.,3 


^ 


e.- 


364 


TH  E     MONOTONB. 


I 


only  served  to  increase  my  fears.  I  inquired  earnestly  if  het 
father  liad  consulted  a  medical  man. 

"  Ob,  yes — a  dozen,  at  least." 

"  And  what  opinion  did  they  give  f 

*'  They  told  the  plain  truth.  Said  that  my  illness  was  pro- 
duced by  mental  excitement.  That  change  of  air  and  scene 
would  soon  bring  me  ronnd.** 

I  felt  that  I  looked  grave  and  sad.  She  put  her  arm  round 
my  shoulder,  and  whispered  in  my  ear  :  "  You  are  mine, 
Geoffrey,  and  I  shall  soon  get  well  in  the  society  of  those  I 
love  ;  so  banish  that  gloomy  frown,  and  try  to  participate  in  the 
general  joy. 

"  I  have  procured  an  exccUent  flute  for  yon,  as  a  little  pre- 
seiit.  You  shall  play,  and  I  will  sing,  and  Kate  Lee  (of  whom 
r  am  no  longer  jeaions)  and  George  shall  dance,  and  papa  shall 
smoke  his  cigar  beneath  onr  favorite  old  tree  and  e;goy  the  fun, 
ahd  we  shall  all  be  so  happy." 

Thus  did  my  poor,  fading,  white  rose  strive  to  divert  my 
thoughts  into  a  brighter  channel  ;  and  liope,  ever  attendant 
upon  the  young,  cheated  me  into  the  belief  that  all  would  yet 
be  well. 

Instead  of  returning  to  Moncton  Park,  George  proposed  our 
accompanying  him  to  Elm  Grove.  Sir  Alexander  thought  the 
change  would  be  beneficial  to  Margaretta,  and  we  joyfully 
accepted  his  proposal. 

I  exchanged  my  horse  wilifi  Sir  A  lexander,  and  took  his  place 
beside  Madge  in  the  open  carriage.  The  good  Baronet  rode 
with  his  son,  who  had  a  thousand  revelations  of  his  past  life  to 
cpmtnunicate  to  his  delighted  father. 

Madge  and  I  were  not  without  our  histories  and  confessions  ; 
and  long  before  we  entered  the  avenue  that  led  to  Elm  Grove, 
the  dear  girl  had  promised  to  become  my  wife,  when  returning 
health  should  remove  the  last  barrier  to  our  union. 


Our  recej 
expected  fro 
Accounts 
travelled  th( 
theme  of  gc 
warmly  conf 
Simpson  wa 
no  longer  n 
myself  not  a 
Sir  Alexi 
unfeigned  st 
will.  "  Tw. 
in  return  fo 
Faith,  my  d 
the  old  ma 
twain  she  lo 
pretty  bride 
adopted  sor 
place  by  yoi 
Margaret 
white  wav; 
kissed  it. 

Thus  did 
future,  with 
are  witherei 
Cheered 
a  devoted  1 
her  former 
Hand  in 
every  romni 
parsonage  ^ 
old  grandf 
Archer  p« 


THE    UONCTONS. 


355 


Our  reception  at  Elm  Grove  wa«  snch  as  might  have  been 
expected  from  its  amiable  possessors. 

Accounts  of  Robert  Moncton'n  and  Dinah  North's  death  had 
travelled  there  before  us,  and  formed,  for  the  first  few  days,  the 
theme  of  general  discussion.  My  kind  friend,  Mrs  Hepburn, 
warmly  congratnlated  me  on  my  accession  of  fortune,  and  Dan 
Simpson  was  almost  bcnide  himself  with  joy.  Though  I  could 
no  longer  regard  myself  as  Sir  Alexander's  successor,  I  found 
myself  not  a  whit  inferior  in  wealth  and  importance. 

Sir  Alexander  received  my  proposal  for  his  daughter  with 
unfeigned  satisfaction.  He  wrung  my  hand  with  hearty  good- 
will. "  Two  sons,  my  dear  Geoff.  G  ud  has  given  me  two  sons 
in  return  for  depriving  me  of  one  of  them  for  so  many  years. 
Faith,  my  dear  boy,  I  hardly  know  which  of  you  is  dearest  to 
the  old  man,  Madge,  however,  has  found  out  which  of  the 
twain  she  loves  best.  I  shall  resign  the  Hall  to  George  and  his 
pretty  bride,  and  will  come  and  live  with  my  dear  girl  and  cay 
adopted  son— hey,  Madge  !  will  you  give  the  old  man  an  easy 
place  by  your  fire-side  ?" 

Margaret  threw  herself  into  his  extended  arms,  parted  the 
white  wavy  locks  from  his  iiigh  forehead,  and  devoutly 
kissed  it. 

Thus  did  we  suffer  hope  to  weave  bright  garlands  for  the 
future,  without  reflecting  how  soon  the  freshest  flowers  of  earth 
are  withered  and  scattered  in  the  dust. 

Cheered  by  the  society  and  sympathy  of  her  new  friends,  with 
a  devoted  lover  ever  at  her  side,  Margaretta  regained  much  of 
her  former  health  aad  cheerfulness. 

Hand  in  hand  w^e  roamed  among  the  Derby  sills,  and  visited 
every  romantic  spot  in  the  neighborhood — not  tbrgtitting  the  old 
parsonage  where  my  mother  was  born — the  spot  ^ere  my  good 
old  grandfather  was  buried — the  little  inn  over  which  Mrs. 
Archer  presided,  who  was  infinitely  delighted  with  seeing  me 


856 


tHE     M0NCT0N8. 


again,  and  hearing  me  introduce  her  lorely  boy  to  Margaretta'i 
efipecial  notice. 

Kate  Lee  did  the  honors  of  the  house  with  the  most  bewitch- 
ing grace,  and  she  and  margaretta  formed  the  most  lively 
at     '  oient  to  each  other. 

"  Is  she  not  beautiful,  Geoffrey  ?"  said  Margaretta,  as  we  sat 
together  on  the  lawn  beneath  the  shade  of  a  large  ash  ;  and  she 
watched  her  friend  aa  ehe  bounded  past  us  down  the  grassy 
slope,  to  join  Sir  Alexander  and  bis  son  in  their  evening  walk. 

"  Yes,  very  beautiful,  Madge." 

"  Don't  you  envy  George  the  possession  of  such  a  charming 
wife  ?" 

"I  love  George  and  admire  his  Kate,  but  I  would  not 
exchange  my  little  fairy,"  aud  I  pressed  her  fondly  to  ray  heart, 
"  for  his  stately  queen," 

"  Ah,  flatterer,  liow  can  I  believe  you,  who  would  prefer  the 
pale,  drooping  suow-drop  to  the  perfumed,  glowing  rose  ?" 

"  Let  George  keep  his  rose — the  peerless  among  many  sweets 
— but  give  me  the  p\ire  eolitary  gem  of  early  spring,  which 
cheers  with  i's  modest  grace  the  parting  frowns  of  envious 
winter." 

I  pressed  he^  small  white  hand  with  fervor  to  my  lips  and 
heart.  The  meek  head  of  the  gentle  girl  sunk  drooping  on  my 
bosom.  The  long  black  lashes  that  veiled  her  matchless  eyes 
were  heavy  with  large  bright  tears. 

"  Why  do  you  weep,  sweet  Madge  1" 

"  I  am  too  happy.  These  are  tears  of  joy  ;  they  relieve  the 
fuUneas  of  my  heart.  After  suffering  so  much  bitter  grief  it  is  a 
luxury  to  weep  in  the  arms  of  the  beloved." 

How  often  have  I  recalled  those  words  when  weeping  in  mad- 
ness on  her  grave,  and  found  no  joy  in  grief — no  peace  in  my 
distracted  heart. 

The  harvest  bad  been  gathered  in,  and  the  ripe  autumnal 


fruits  hung 
Moncton  Pa 
celebration 
activity  at  \ 
the  iniporta 
interest  in 
Kate. 

Not  a  rib 
and  I  were  ( 
ness  ;  whilst 
were  direct* 
bad  planned 

Thus  all  ^ 
in  Septembe 
showers. 

Often,  wh 
Margaret  W( 
closely  to  n 
cold- 
One  day  i 
ing  had  iudi 
usual,  we  nl 
next  momid 
sudden  chilh 
were  succeec 
of  the  face,  ' 

Medical  a 
daily  increae 

I  dared  n 
heart,  and  \? 
her  complait 

To  my  u 
patient  w^as 


THB     MONOTONS. 


861 


fruits  hung  heavily  on  the  loaded  trees  when  we  retnrned  to 
Moncton  Park.  The  first  of  October  had  been  named  for  the 
celebration  of  our  double  nuptials,  and  all  was  bustle  and 
activity  at  the  Hall,  in  snaking  the  necessary  pn^parationi  for 
tlie  important  event.  Margaretta  appeared  to  take  as  much 
interest  ia  the  matriraouial  arrangeoieuts  as  her  lively  Oiend, 
Kate. 

Not  a  ribbon  was  selected  or  a  dress  purchased,  but  George 
and  I  were  called  to  give  our  opinion  of  its  beauty  or  becoming- 
ness  ;  whilst  the  good  old  Baronet's  whole  time  and  attention 
were  directed  to  the  improvements  and  decorations  which  he 
bad  planned  in  the  interior  of  the  Hall. 

Thus  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell  until  the  second  week 
in  September,  which  was  nshered  in  by  heavy  gales  and  frequent 
showers. 

Often,  when  returning  from  our  accustomed  rides  and  walks, 
Margaret  would  draw  her  shawl  tightly  round  her,  and  clinging 
closely  to  my  arm,  would  complain  that  she  was  cold — eery 
cold,. 

One  day  in  particular,  when  the  deceitful  beauty  of  the  morn- 
ing had  induced  as  to  extend  our  ride  a  few  miles  farther  than 
usual,  we  all  got  drenched  by  a  sudden  shower  of  rain.  The 
next  morning  my  dear  girl  complained  of  a  pain  in  her  chest, 
Kudden  chills  and  weariness  of  mind  and  body.  These  symplons 
were  succeeded  by  a  short,  hacking  cough,  and  sudden  flushings 
of  the  face,  which  greatly  alarmed  us  all. 

Medical  advice  was  instantly  called  in,  but  Margaret's  malady 
daily  increased  and  her  strength  rapidly  declined. 

I  dared  not  whisper  to  myself  the  fears  that  oppressed  my 
heart,  and  was  almost  afraid  of  asking  Dr.  Wilson  the  nature  of 
her  complaint. 

To  ray  utter  grief  and  despair  he  informed  me  that  bis 
patient  was  beyond  human  aid — that  a  few  weeks,  at  t/ie 


iSm 


THE     MOMCTJNS, 

farthest,   would  i  rminate  the  existence  of  the  gentlfiHt  and 
purest  of  human  beings. 

"  It  would  be  cruel  to  deceive  yon,  Mr.  Moncton,"  he  said,  M 
he  announced  the  startling  trutb-for  the  dreadful  coramunicn. 
tion  had  quite  unmanned  me.  "Let  this  comfort  you  in  your 
affliction,  that  I  have  anticipated  this  for  years-that  our  dear 
patient  has  carried  about  with  her  the  seeds  of  this  fatal  malady 
frominfancy-that  it  is  better  that  she  should  thus  fall  in  the 
budding  season  of  youth,  than  leave  hereafter  a  family  of  child- 
ren to  bewail  their  irreparable  loss.  I  sorrow  for  her  father 
and  you,  Mr.  Geoffrey,  more  than  for  her.  Death  has  few 
terrors  to  a  sincere  Christian,  and  such  from  childhood  Mar- 
garet Moncton  has  been.  A  friend  to  the  friendless-a  sister 
of  mercy  to  the  poor  and  destitute." 

Oh  reader  1  if  you  have  ever  known  what  it  is  to  see  your 
fondest  hopes  annihilated  at  the  very  moment  of  their  apparent 
fulfillment,  you  can  form  some  idea  of  my  mental  anguish  whilst 
watching  the  decay  of  that  delicate  flower. 

Margaret  was  now  fully  aware  of  her  danger,  a  most  micom- 
mon  circumstance  in  the  victims  of  that  insidious  disease,  on 
whom  Death  advances  so  softly  that  he  always  comes  suddenly 
at  last.  She  prepared  herself  to  meet  the  mighty  conquerer 
with  a  cheerful  submission  to  the  will  of  God,  that  surprised 

as  all,  ,  .  , 

One  thing  she  earnestly  entreated,  that  the  marriage  of 

Catherine  and  George  might  not  be  postponed  on  account  of 

her  illness.  ,      t      u 

"  I  not  only  wish  to  witness  their  happiness  before  I  go  hence, 

but  to  share  in  it,"  she  said  to  us,  a  few  days  before  the  one 

that  had  been  appointed  for  the  ceremony,  as  we  were  aU  sitting 

round  the  sofa  on  which  she  was  reclining. 

"  And  yon,  dearest  Geoffrey,  must  give  me  a  lawful  claim  to 

the  tender  care  I  receive  from  you.    Though  I  can  only  be  your 


iH 


wife  in  name, 

that  coreted  a 

I  could  ill  r 

bathe  her  haiK 

wished  to  call 

the  proposal  »< 

Oh,  what  a 

sweet  face  aloii 

she  stood  besid 

How  bcautil 

mockery  was  t 

busy  with  my 

snowy  shroud. 

One  little  v 

before  that  alt 

dying  love  ;  bu 

bright,  my  beai 

au  eternal  divoi 

Years  have  f 
am  now  an  old, 

Sir  Alexande 
and  the  old  H 
young  people,  t 
rine  Lee. 

I,  too,  have  i 
adoption,  for  oi 
me  these. 

For  years  I  h 
of  Dinah  North 
surrounded  by  s 

I  love  to  linj 
dest  moments  ol 


MUm 


If 


) 


THE     MOirOTONS, 


3Sft 


wife  in  name,  I  shall  die  happy  in  hearing  you  a<ldresH  me  by 
that  coveted  appellation." 

I  could  in  reply  only  press  her  wasted  form  in  ray  arns  and 
bathe  her  hands  and  face  with  ray  tears.  How  earnestly  had  I 
wished  to  call  her  mine,  though  I  lacked  the  courage  to  make 
the  proposal  so  dear  to  ray  peace. 

Oh,  what  a  melancholy  day  was  that  to  ns  all.  Margaret's 
sweet  face  alone  wore  a  serene  smile,  as,  supported  by  her  father, 
she  stood  beside  me  at  the  altar. 

How  beautiful  she  looked  in  her  white  bridal  dress.  What  a 
mockery  was  the  ceremony  to  my  tortured  heart,  whilst  fancy, 
busy  with  ray  grief,  converted  those  flowing  garments  into  a 
snowy  shroud. 

One  little  week  after  that  melancholy  event  I  again  bent 
before  that  altar,  to  partake  of  the  'ast  tokens  of  a  Saviour's 
dying  love  ;  but  I  knelt  alone.  The  grave  had  closed  over  my 
bright,  my  beautiful,  my  virgin  bride,  and  my  soul  had  vowed 
au  eternal  divorce  from  the  vanities  and  lusts  of  earth. 
•♦**•# 

Years  have  fled  on  in  their  silent  and  undeviating  course.  I 
am  now  an  old,  grey-headed  man. 

Sir  Alexander  Moncton  has  long  been  gathered  to  his  fathers, 
and  the  old  Hall  is  filled  by  a  race  of  healthy,  noble  looking 
young  people,  the  children  of  Sir  George  Moncton  and  Cathe- 
rine Lee. 

I,  too,  have  a  Geoffrey  and  a  Margaret,  the  children  of  my 
adoption,  for  out  of  a  large  family  Sir  George  wil'ingly  spared 
me  these. 

For  years  I  have  resided  at  the  Lodge,  formerly  the  residence 
of  Dinah  North,  which  I  have  converted  into  a  pretty  dwelling, 
surrounded  by  shrubbery's  and  flower-gardens. 

I  love  to  linger  near  the  scenes  where  the  happiest  and  sad 
dest  moments  of  my  life  were  passed. 


"u 


leo 


THE     MONCTONI. 


the  redundant  affections  of  warm  and  ^udd  ss  hearts. 

Mv  wealth  ih  the  means  of  making  many  happy--of  obvuvtmg 
the  Lrrows  of  the  sorrowful,  and  Bmoothing  w.th  neee.ary 

"meVririort' my 'beloved  Margaret.  I  mourned  as  one 
When  1  hrst   08    my  ^^^^  ^^^^^^  ^^  ^^,,. 

lu  what  a  different  light  I  view  all  these  trials  now.     n 

hito  compassion  for  the  sorrows  »"« 
human  race. 

♦  *  •  *  * 

.  fcU  .0.  .e"«.  -ae.  «d  ..  p^.  ^njr  .v.r. 

Thpse  relate  to  the  fate  ot  lueopnuua  i»i  i  ^ 

llicse  reiai  _^  ,  ^^^^j^  ^^y  ^Jq^^     toi 

death." 

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mms^^ 


House,  my 
of  the  stree 

Till!  voic 
ear,  and  lo( 
tioiis  of  pi 
Theophilus 

He,  too, 
his  hat  at  t 

"Do  uol 
man.     My 
can  well  be 

•'  What 
voice,  as  I  ( 
recalled  ma: 

"  You  h£ 
ing  away  hi 
leaving  me 
him. 

Wishing 
and  to  elm 
father's  dea 
the  hope  of 

A  week  < 
snpplying  fa 
shilling  into 
poor  fellow 

"  Saving 
a  broad  Iris 
not  over-ho: 
foolish  bodj 
ngly,  anwhc 
mayhap  he 
bottle  till  h 


THE    MOKCTOKa 


S61 


House,  my  charity  was  solicited  by  tlie  dirty,  ragged  sweeper 
of  the  street. 

Tiio  voice,  though  long  unheard,  was  only  too  familiar  to  my 
car,  and  looking  earnestly  at  the  suppliant,  with  mingled  sensa- 
tions of  pity  and  horror,  I  recognized  my  long-lost  cousin, 
Theophilus  Moncton. 

He,  too,  recognized  me,  and  dropping  the  tattered  remains  of 
his  hat  at  my  feet,  muttered  half  aloud  :* 

"  Do  not  betray  me,  Geoffrey  ;  I  am  a  lost  and  miserable 
man.  My  punishment  Is  already  greater  than  flesh  and  blood 
flan  well  bear." 

*'  What  assistance  can  I  render  you  ?''  I  asked.  In  a  faltering 
voice,  as  I  dropped  my  purse  into  his  hat,  for  the  sight  of  him 
recalled  many  painful  recollections. 

"  You  have  rendered  me  the  best  in  your  power  ;"  and  fling- 
ing away  his  broom,  he  disappeared  down  a  dirty,  narrow  alley, 
leaving  me  in  a  state  of  doubt  and  anxiety  concerning 
him. 

Wishing  to  convert  this  sinner  from  the  error  of  his  ways, 
and  to  elucidate,  if  possible,  the  mystery  which  involved  his 
father's  death,  I  repaired  to  the  same  place  fo?  several  days  in 
the  hope  of  meeting  with  him  again,  but  without  success. 

A  week  elapsed,  and  I  found  another  tattered  son  of  want 
supplying  his  place  at  the  crossing  of  the  street.  Dropping  a 
shilling  into  his  extended  hand,  1  asked  what  had  become  of  the 
poor  fellow  that  used  to  sweep  there. 

"  Saving  your  honor's  presence,"  returned  the  mendicant,  in 
a  broad  Irish  accent,  "  he  was  a  big  blackguard,  and  so  he  was, 
not  over-honest  neither,  and  always  drunk.  T'other  day,  some 
foolish  body  who  had  more  mouey  nor  wit,  took  a  fancy  to  his 
ugly,  unwholesome  phiz.,  and  gave  him  a  purseful  of  gould — or 
mayhap  he  stole  it — an'  he  never  quits  the  grip  of  the  brandy 
bottle  till  he  dies.    They  carried  the  body  to  the  poor-house, 


Hi 


-vfia^i9tr.wm'Xtti;vnm^  ■' 


862 


THB    UONOTONS. 


t' 


ti 


and  that's  all  I  knows  of  the  chap.  'Tis  a  lucky  thing,  yer 
honor,  that  the  scamp  has  neither  wife  nor  child." 

I  thought  so,  too,  as  with  a  heavy  sigh  I  took  my  way  to  th» 
inn,  murmuring  to  myself  as  I  walked  along  : 

"  And  such  is  the  end  of  the  wicked." 


t 

nai 
brim 
.  be  t 
rega 
of  t 
thei 
•11  g 


si 


I 


VIS   IVB 


Ok 
Glute 
from 

Dr 

6e8t  I 

"A 
God  I 

"I 

am  ol 

BCHLl 

New  1 

HE. 


it 


P 


thing,  yer 
way  to  die 


^n 


^«'»bor  of  cleaning  andaoouring  ut  leist  one-h^f"' 


lUo.  a  cake,    gold  by 


Ok.  a.  W.  Thompson.  Northampton,  Mass.,  lays:  "I  have  tested  th« 
Fr!>rhf=rro"hreiro!?.*f.  *''^"'  ^'"-''^«'  "  indLTl^tp^cJ^' 

6e?t'^«red"yf^?^oIf/efSS^^^^^^^^  "*^« 

God^ufjiT.^".^^^^^^^^ 

"Ipreaonbo  the  «luten  Suppositories  almost  daily  in  mv  nraotioe  and 
ScH^frv 'n'^'p '^*  "*  the  pSmanent  results  obtaiLd  "^^Mont,"t 
New  York  C%'."'  ^^^"""^  DUgnosU  Woman's  Medical  CoU^ 

HEALTH  FOOD   CO.,   76  4th  Avenue,  N.  T.- 


THE  BEST 

WASHING  COMPOUND 

EVER  INVENTED. 
No  I>ady,  Rlarrted  or 
9Insle,  Rich  or  Poor, 

Honsekecplns  <>>* 
Boardlngr,  will  be 
-wltliout  It  after  test* 
ing  Its  utility. 

S0I4I  by  all  first-class 
Groccrs,but  bewaroof 
vrorthlesB  Imitatioaa. 


SOCIALISM  IN  ACTION 


It  is  the  distingniahinfr  featnra  of  the  Labor  Movement  that  it 
BtriTes  after  the  attainment  of  a  social  state  for  every  human 
being,  such  as  shall  be  the  healthy  stimulation  of  all  bia  guod 

1    qualities,  while  his  bad  tendencies  shall  wither  and  drop  away 

'    £rom  t'i"'  by  the  impossibility  of  their  sustenance. 

To  get  at  this  conception  of  the  possible  life  of  man,  haa  re- 
quired the  experience  of  every  day  and  every  year,  since  the  race 
arrived  at  the  ability  to  keep  a  record  of  its  progress. 

The  process  of  the  seasons,  the  growth  and  ripening  of  the  crops 
has  been  the  lesson  nature  has  afforded  for  the  study  of  her 
methods,  and  this  ceaseless  repetition  haa  finally  awakened  man  to 
the  conception  that  hia  own  life  allies  him  to  the  same  law  of 
development. 

This  is  the  measure  of  the  socialist  movement  of  the  present,  and 
for  those  who  desire  to  take  part  in  its  furtherance  we  would  com- 
mend the  study  of  SOCIAL  SOLUTIONS.  * 

The  main  purpose  of  this  publication  was  to  issue  the  transits- 
tion  by  Marie  Howland  of  the  first  public  statement  by  M.  Oodin, 
of  the  study  and  experience  he  has  illustrated  in  the  construction 
and  organization  of  the  FAMILISTERE. 

Though  the  translation  of  this  most  important  demonstration  of 
the  new  life  for  lobor  was  annoimced  when  it  was  prepared,  by  one 
of  the  chief  publishers  of  this  country,  yet  being  abandoned  on  the 
ground  "the  labor  question  was  too  exciting,"  it  remained  in 
manuscript  until,  in  the  course  of  events,  a  more  progressive  pub- 
lisher was  found.  In  ita  preparation  the  plan  adopted  was  that 
of  twelve  ports,  each  of  which  should  contain  such  illustrative 
materlij  as  the  editor  should  either  find  or  prepare.  The  twelve 
parts  are  now  published  and  for  sale.  While  the  complete  trans- 
ition of  M.  Godin's  work  is  contained  in  eleven  of  the  parts,  the 
twelfth  part  is  an  admirable  and  complete  exposition  of  the  Eeriea 
of  social  solutions  proposed  by  the  Credit  Foneier  of  Sinoloa,  for 
the  organisation  of  the  society  on  Topolobampo  Bay,  in  Sinaloa, 
Mexico,  which  haa  been  gathered  by  the  Credit  Fntcier  of  Sinaloa, 
a  paper  published  at  Hammonton,  New  Jersey,  at  (1.00  a  year. 

•  Sodal  SoInUoDB,  published  ia  12  parts  In  Loveli's  Library,  prloo  10  cents 
•ao!i,  or  the  12  parts  for  $1.00. 


JOHN   W.   LOVELL  CO., 

14  and  16  Veaey  St.,  New  Tork, 


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a  year. 

rloo  10  cents 


w  York, 


RECENTLY     PUBLISHED. 


1  vol.,  I2mr,  illuafrated,  cloth  gilt,  $lJiO, 


SOCIAL  SOLUTIONS 


{Solutions  Socicdes). 


By   M.    c*«>r)i]sr, 

r\>uMter  or  the  FamUistire  at  a,i(3e;  rrtmtnent  LeaOer  of  IMuMrie*  v» 
rrance  ana  BeKrium;  Member  of  ou  National  Autmbly. 

TBANSLATED  FBOM  THE  FREKCH  BY 

MAEIK  HOWLAND. 


An  admirable  English  translation  of  M.  Godin's  state- 
ment of  the  course  of  study  which  led  him  to  conceive  the 
Social  Palace  at  Guise,  France.  There  is  do  question  that 
this  pubUcation  will  mark  an  era  in  the  growth  of  the 
labor  questioa  It  should  serve  as  the  manual  for  organ- 
ized labor  in  its  present  contest,  since  its  teachings  will  as 
surely  lead  to  the  destruction  of  the  wages  system  tw  the 
aboUtion  movement  lead  to  that  of  chattel  slavery. 


JOHN  W.  LOVELL  COMPANY, 

PUBLISHERS, 
14  and  16   Veaey  Street,  NEW  YOMK. 


J 


II.  RIDER  HAGGARD'S  NOVELS. 


i2ino.    Paper, 


SHK :  A  HISTOllY  OF  ADVENTURE. 

20  cents. 

There  .ire  color,  splendor,  and  passion  everywhere  ;  action  In  abundance ;  con- 
•tant  viriely  and  abtorbing  intcrett.  Mr.  Haggard  does  not  err  on  the  side  of 
niggardlincks  :  he  is  only  too  affluent  in  dewriplioii  and  uriiament.  .  .  .  'I'here  is 
n  Lirgeness,  a  freshnes!!,  ami  a  strength  about  him  which  are  full  of  promise  and 
encouragement  the  more  since  he  has  placed  himself  so  unmistakably  on  the  roman- 
ti :  Hide  of  Action  :  thut  is,  on  the  side  of  truth  and  permanent  value.  .  ■  •  He  is 
already  one  of  the  foremost  modern  romance  writers. — JV,  V,  ll'ar/ii. 

It  seems  to  me  that  Mr.  Hagiard  has  supplied  to  us  in  this  book  the  complement 
'of  "  Dr.  Jeckyl."  lie  has  showu  us  what  woman's  luve  for  manreally  means.— y/ir 
Ji'urHaiitl, 

One  cannot  too  much  applaud  Mr.  Haggard  for  his  power  in  working  up  to  a 
weiril  situation  and  holding  the  reader  at  the  ghost-story  pitch  without  ever  abso- 
lutely entering  the  realm  of  the  supernatural,  .  .  ,  It  is  a  story  to  be  read  at 
one  sitting,  not  in  weekly  parts,  Hut  its  sensationalism  is  fresh  and  stirring ;  its 
philosophy  is  conveved  in  pages  that  glow  with  fine  images  and  charm  the  reader 
like  tlie  melodious  verse  of^  Swinburne, — N*  )',  Times, 

One  of  the  most  peculiar,  vifiJ,  and  absorbing  stories  we  have  read  for  a  long 
time, — Boston  Times. 

JESS.     A  Novel.     i2mo.     Paper,  20  cents. 

Mr,  Has:gard  has  a  genius,  not  to  say  a  great  talent,  for  story-telling.  .  .  . 
That  he  should  have  a  large  circle  of  readers  m  England  and  this  country,  where  so 
many  are  trying  to  tell  stories  with  no  stories  to  tell,  is  a  healthy  sign,  in  that  it 
shows  that  the  love  of  fiction,  pure  and  simple,  is  as  strong  as  it  was  in  the  days  of 
Dickens  and  Thackeray  and  Scott,  the  older  days  of  Smollett  and  Fielding,  ami  the 
old,  old  days  of  Le  Sage  and  Cervantes.  —A',  1 ,  Mail  and  Express. 

Thif  bare  sketch  of  the  story  gives  no  conception  of  the  beauty  of  the  love- 
passages  betwren  Jess  and  Niel,  or  of  the  many  fine  touches  interpolated  by  the 
author. — St.  Louis  Republican. 

Another  feast  of  South  African  life  and  marvel  for  those  who  revelled  in  "  She," — 
Brooklyn  Eagle. 

The  story  has  special  and  novel  interest  for  the  spirited  reproduction  of  life,  char- 
acter, scenes,  and  mcidents  peculiar  to  the  Transvaal, — Boston  Advertiser, 

Mr.  Hagfcard  is  remarkable  for  his  fertility  of  invention.  .  ,  .  The  story,  like 
the  rest  of  his  stories,  is  full  of  romance,  movement,  action,  color,  passion.  *'  Jess  *' 
is  to  be  commended  because  it  it  what  it  pretends  to  be— a  story. — Philadelphia 
Timet, 

KING  SOLOMON'S  MINES.    A  Novel,     i2mo.     Paper, 
20  cents. 

Few  stories  of  the  season  are  more  exciting  than  this,  for  it  contains  an  account 
of  the  discovery  of  the  legendary  mines  of  King  Solomon  in  South  Africa.  The 
style  is  quaint  and  realistic  throughout,  and  the  adventures  of  the  explorers  in  the 
l.ir.d  of  the  Kukuana  are  full  of  stirring  incidents.  The  characters,  too,  are  vigar- 
oiwly  drawn. — News  and  Courier,  Charleston, 

This  novel  has  achieved  a  wonderful  popuhrity.    It  is  one  of  the  best  selling 
books  of  the  season,  and  it  deserves  its  great  success. —  Troy  Daily  Press. 

THE  WITCH'S  HEAD.    A  Novel,    i2mo.    Paper,  20  cents. 
DAWN.     A  Novel.     i2mo.     Paper,  20  cents. 
Published  by  JOHN  W.  LOVELL  COMPANY,  New  York. 

tWAny  o/the  above  i9orks  sent  by  mail, postage  prepaid^  to  any  part  of  the 
United  States  «-  Canada^  on  receipt  of  the  price-. 


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no.    Paper, 

idance ;  con- 
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jn  the  roman- 
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e  complement 

Uing  up  (o  a 
>ut  ever  abso- 
:o  be  read  at 
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ad  for  a  long 


lling.  .  ,  . 
I  try,  where  so 
ign,  in  that  it 
n  the  days  of 
Idingf  and  the 

r  of  the  lovc- 
alated  by  the 

;  in  "  She."— 

1  of  life,  char- 

■User, 

lie  story,  like 

ion.    ''JesB*' 

Philadelphia 


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fart  #/  ike 


"PAPA'S  OWN  GIRL" 

By  Marie  Howland. 

tonal  cnhcs,  who  after  a  careful  perueal,  returned  it  wS» 
the  following  analysis  of  its  rare  excellence : 

'!. ^*  ^  ^^  "f  "'«^'  ''^  *nen.  vxmen  and  ehUdren  of  ymir  tUxrit 

•wm  hke  actmtty  living  being,,  u?um  J  have  met  and  Uv^ ^cioTor 
perhapt  may  nwet  io-mmrmo. 

vr  rn^  ^  ^""^^"^  ^'^''  "^  ^IFander  than  anylMng  GEORGE 
^Y/Tem-  wrote.  I  am  not,  in  mying  this,  di^r.iging  ths  Jlrit 
l^f  of  (Ju>  story,  but  this  last  part  is  a  fuv>  gospT^  THE  cOuSt 
ua  creation  suggesUd  by  die  best  qualities  oftJui  best  men  you  have 
J^     THE  SOCIAL  PALACE,  as  you  have  painted7,  U^ 

':^tt''''^T'''r''':^rv'V'^^^^^^^ 

DAN'8  return,  and  of  his  meetingmth  MIN,  is  inaiaeribabh,  !^i^' 

ZZ^  T"  ^^^  '"^  ""'''  ""^  ""^  "^  e'ZZlnlZdl 
ncregectxtethin  m  any  dramatic  situation  in  literature.  With  ihe 
^efiddUyofth^  artist  you  have  gir^  perfect  atte.ition  to  your  mimr 
charts,   TOO  SOON  >  for  example;  and  I  c^mire  L  tacTZ. 

tfr  f^jr  "^  w;5;t/^^^^^'"'^  ^'"^^  "^^  '^  SOCIAL 
PAL  ACE  and  WOMAN'S  mOHTS.     This  is  true  AST.     Tour 

'^'^J^S^t  rn^aa  the  great  questions  of  t}u>  day,  even  the^^^ 
T'     V'f.    "^  **"  trandation  of  OODIN  that  could  be  given. 
Thumajlnd  a  PUBLISHER,  be  sure  of  that,  and.  THE  NOVEL 

This  powerfully  written  and  artistic  Novel  is  to  the  social 
Questions  now  convulsing  the  civilized  world  what  "K 
Tom's  Cabin  "was  to  the  slavery  agitation. 


One  volume.  12mo,  Lovell's  Library.  No.  634. 
SO  cents ;  Cloth,  45  cents. 

JOHN  W.  LOVELL  CO..  Publishers. 
14:  and  16  Veaey  St.,  New  York. 


Opinions  of  Eminent  Men  abovi 

"MOONSHINE" 

By  FBED££IG  ALLISOH  TUPPEB. 

X    Tol.,    lamo,    liOvcir*    lilbrTy,    Wo.    896.     «0    Cent». 

''^^lIlV^reidYr^^Btonr'of  'MooiwUlne'  with  a  grtat  deal  oMntoreBt     ? 
rtWuW  iiMMje  from  am  DooK  that  U  was  verittm  by  an  eye^eUneM  of  ttu 
mxnes  it  ao  araphUMOt  desaiOea." 
GHN.  BENJAMIN  F.  BUTLER  aayi!  .^     .  __       „ 

"It  Ukea  tta  place  with  •  Uncle  Tom'a  Cabin,'  Poafa  atory  ' From  Ocean  to 
Ocean,'  and  Tonrgfie's '  FooI'b  Errand,'  in  teaching  the  people  the  acta,  dolngg, 
and  feclingB  of  each  section.    Accept  mv  flumlcs  jor  the  Dodk  as  a  tontrVM- 
tion  to  tM  truth  of  history." 
BKNATOB  JOHN  SHERMAN  Bays: 

"  I  have  read  the  book  with  interest  and  pleasure." 

SENATOR  JOHN  A.  LOGAN  aays :  .  ..  ^  ^     ,. 

"It  Beema  to  be  o  M«H-wrt«en  Oook  bo  far  as  I  have  had  an  opportonlty 
of  examining  It." 
SENATOB  GEO.  B.  EDMUNDS  aayB: 

"  Soatteted  paragraphs  that  I  have  read  interest  me  aery  much," 

EX-SBCBBTART  GEO.  8.  BOUTWELL  says : 

"I  have  read  yonr  novel  entitled  'Moonshine,'  with  vreat  interest.  Your 
nloture  of  Southern  outrages  Is  a  truthful  representaUon  as  far  as  U  relates 
to  the  UUoU  dlatUUUon  and  sale  of  whiskey." 


PRESS    NOTICES. 


"  •Moonshine'  iB  »  story,  not  of  the  moonshine  of  love  or  of  nonsense,  but 
of  the  traulo  moonshine  of  the  '  moonshlnerB.'  It  is  viviMy  tout  ana  well 
written.  'The  hero  Is  not  the  typical  Northerner  who  used  to  go  Sonth  and  rs- 
twna  mow  than  typical  Sonthemer:  but  a  Northerner  rather  inclined  to 
Democratic  and  Southern  Ideals,  who  goes  South  and  retnrns  with  no  dls- 
pMlUon  ever  to  stray  again  from  his  native  heath."— r/ie  Crttic. 

"The  atory  is  toeH  written  and  has  power  In  caaslng  ImprcBslons  of  l»s 
fldeUty  and  in  carrying  convictions  of  Ita  truth.  It  is  a  story  that  wUl  etOer- 
tain  many  readers."— Boston  cnobe. 

"Incidentally  It  affords  a  view  of  political  subvenrton  In  Alabama.  If  the 
baUot-box  thronahont  the  country  were  Juggled  with  and  polluted  m  It  Is  In 
SathSaollna,  Florida,  Alabama,  Mlaslsalppl.  and  Lonlstona,  the  Kepubllo 
rt  the  UnUedStates  wouM  be  at  an  end.  11  is  PUiin  that  the  author  writes 
as  an  eue-wttnesa."— Cincinnati  commercial  Oasette. 

••  A  BprlBhtly  story,  graphic  In  description,  and/tril  of  exoUing  incUtenis." 
—CMoago  Inter-Ocean. 


-Zion'a 


"  The  style  is  easy  ana  graoeful."— Chicago  Times. 

"  Ibid  with  much  vigor  ana  shows  no  little  aramatio  power,' 

*"  fun  of  life  ana  inoUlent."—Barvara  Crimson. 
"Mr.  Tupper  Is  a  terse  writer,  clear  in  portrayal,  elevated  In  sentiment, 
and  graphic  IndescrtpUon."-J«Bioto»(Ma8B.)  Transcript. 

JOHN  W.  LOVELL  COMPANY,  Pnblishere, 

1 4  ar^d  16  Vesey  St.,  New  York. 


Gun 
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and  ; 
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IS   NOW    KNC.AOI.I)    IN   THR 

Peoi'i!  \jum\m  SnsDly  Associatioii. 

It  is  nn  organization  oi  the  mnnufacliircrs  of  mony  classes  of 
merchnntlisc  and  thoiisnnils  of  private  families  wlio  reside  in  all 
parts  of  the  United  States,  who  have  acquired  some  confidence  in 
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Every  twenty-four  hours  the  business  is  completed  and  not  a  dol- 
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this  organization. 

Memberships  are  issued  to  persons,  good  for  the  exclusive  use  of 
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Instructor,"  a  large  quarto  volume  of  250  pages,  sent  to  all  new 
members  free. 

Confidence  in  the  Association  is  needed  before  it  is  of  any  rea> 
benefit  to  you.  This  can  be  obtained  in  two  ways,  viz.:  ist,  Inquire 
among  your  neighbors  and  find  some  friend  who  has  had  dealings 
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Orders  for  goods  are  received  from  and  goods  sent  to  all  parts  of 
the  United  Slates,  with  Free  Transportation  when  ten 
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being  paid  by  the  Manufacturers  at  the  Central  Office. 

Apply  at  once,  ond  make  all  remittances  for  either  merchandise  or 
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«8  Wall  St.,  and  14  &  16  Vesoy  St.,  NEW  YORK  CITY. 


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^e  ihousand 
ns  adjusted, 
nization,  by 
:d,  and  this 
I  obligation  ; 
arcs  for  spot 
quality,  and 

id  not  a  dol- 

rience  *he 

derations   of 

(usive  tise  of 
^hich  sum  is 

I  Guide  and 
to  all  new 

of  any  rea> 
1st,  Inquire 
ad  dealings 
small  tria/ 
ilealings  aro 

)  all  parts  of 

II  when  ten 
ght  charges 

rchandise  or 


Hon, 

IRK  CITY. 


TUB  NKW  NOVEL 

**THE  DUCHESS'* 

By  TBB  nvCHBSS, 

Author  of  "  Mnlly  Bawn,"  "  phylliii  " 
etc.,  etc.,  ' 

to  the   best  of  this  popnlnr  writer's 
woriu,  lUut  Is  having  au  euonnoua  sale. 

Ho.   1078  I^vell's  Mbrary, 
PnicB,  ao  Centh. 
JOHH  W.  lOVXU,  CO.,  Pnbllihen, 
_  14  *  10  Vmht  BTBror,  Niw  York. 

k  CLEAR  OOMPLEXIONT 

WMt  03.1  St..  N.  Y..  lady  write.. 
I   found  Da.   Campbcll'i   AB8KNtn 

ttom  the  fljToctM  of  nm  aria,  could  not 
uumriiJiXION  ;'   but  NOW  all  u 

«n,iH«ii)  L""^  complexion  U  the  envy 
refer  to  ..^i??'','^''''  '"'"'i'"- .  You  may 

&o!fai"b'^'  ^-  «"»'««'•  ^^- 

PACE,  HANDS,  FEET, 

and  all  their  imperfeo- 
tiona,  inolndins  Facial 
Development,  Hair  and 
Soaip,  Superfluous 
f  Hair,     Birth      Marks, 

P~.  1 1  B  T'ff'  W*""**.  Moth, 
Rwcklea,  Red  Noae,  Acne.  Blacl^ 
Heads,  Soars.  Pitting,  and  their 
treatment  Send  lOo.  for  book  of 
BO  pages.  4th  edition. 

l)r.   JOHN   H.  WOODBUBY. 

37  North  Peart  St..  Albany^  Nrv  ' 
•  parlors-BXorlaaiea.  Bstabltobeaiwo 


fiEAMCHE! 

BY  U8INQ  THE  GENUINE 

Br.  C.  UcLane'sl 

LIVER  PILLS 

PRICE,  25  CENTS. 

FOH   SALE  Br   AU    DttUOQISTa. 

■^^■■■iSond  OR  the  ont-l 
side  wrapi)er  from  a  l>ox  of  the  I 
genuliio  Uh.  C.  MoLA^JB'S  Ciut- 
BRATiiD  Lnn  Pills,  with  your  I 
addriisH,  plainly  written,  and  wef 
will  send  you.  by  rotnm  mall,  »■ 
magniflcent  paokaee  of  Chroraatlo  f 
and  Oloographlo  Cards.H|B| 

FLEMING  BROS. 

PITT8BUROH,  PA. 


CANDY 


CANDY 


.  Send  H.aa,  W.M, 
m.fio.  or  IWi.ilo  for  a 
iiamplo  rutnll  box,  by 
fxpromt,  propald.  of 
the  Boat  OilSlDIES 
In  Amnrlca.  Strictly 
pure,  and  put  up  In 
oloKant  boxea.  Hult- 
abln  for  proaonti. 

C.  F.  GUNTHER, 

Oonf«etiontr, 

lit  State  St.,  nd 
^^^^^^^__^^        78  Madlion  It, 
CHICAGO. 

8T0MAGH  BITTERS 

HAg  FOB  35  TIABB  BRN 

Adopted  by  PhyticlaM  and  lavalidi, 

T_  J. »,  ^'  A  BKMELY  FOB 

Indlffeatlon,  Dyspepsia. 

Fever  and  Ague,  Malaria, 

Neuralgia.  Klieuntatlsm. 
.    .  General  Debility. 

And  othtr  KINDRED  DISEASES, 

THOUSANDS    Of'^^'t'imONIAM  IN 
OUR  POSSESHION?'^^"   ^ 

HOSTETTER'S  STOMACH  BITTERS. 


fe: 


•  »A ' 


DR.    SCOTT'S         "1 

ELECTRIC  Corsets  and  Belts. 

*  '         irear  either  the  Conet  or  Belt, 

nil*  nOBBBTS  ARK  DOUBLB  STITv'HBD  AND  WILL  NOT  RIP. 

Evtry  mail  brings  ut  IttlinUHiaU 

We  Kuara.itee   lafe  <leli»"y„i"«" 

your   hands.      Ucmit  in    Po>t.Oflic= 

Money-order.  Draft,  Check,  or  In  Cur- 

rency  by  Registered  Letter  at  our 

risk.      In  ordering    kindly  mention 

L(nitirs   Library,  and  state  exact 

size  of  corset  usually  worn.    Ma«« 

'   ^     all  renii-.wnces  payable  »  f;*"- 

J^        A.    SCOTT,  oli   BUOAD'-,AY, 

J^         NEW  YORK.         ^        ^,  ,      ,. 

%fft  N.    B -Each    aiticle  U 

Sr%k.     stamped  with  the  EngHsh 

^ZK.      co-it-of-arms,     and    the 

A*»      name   of  the  P.opJ'f 

40^      tors,     THE     PAI-L 

T^V     MALL  ELECT. 

'^^     R I  C      ASSOCIA- 


enetsv  and  do  not  "feel  Tip  to  the  mars. 
rem.irkablc  curntiveJ.    They  cannot  and  „.,   .-.  ••■j---.---- 
hiSin      There  is  no  shock  or  sensation  felt  ia  wearing  them, 
tUk€  Ike/ollirviiHt: 

THE    CEIEBRATED    DR.     W.    A. 
HAMMOND,   of  New    York,   formerly 
Saigeon-General  of  the   U   S.  Army 
lately  lectured  upon  this  subject,  and 
advised   all   medical   men  to   make 
trial  of  these  agencies,  dcscnblne  !•• 
>he  tame  time  most  remarkable 
cures  he  had  made,  even  In  cases     ^y^ 
which  would  seem  hopeleg.  ♦.^J' 

The  Corsets  do  not  differ     >[^^ 
In  appearance  from  those     ^^C* 
usually  worn.    They  are       "V* 
eleganr  Ui  shape  and      ^k    ^ 
finish,  mr.de  after  the    M^ 
best  French  pattern,    ^^ 
and  iltarranted  satisfac- 
tory  in  ever-"   respect. 
Our  Bells  for  both  gents 
and  ladies  are  the  Ken- 

nine  Dr.  Scotf  eand  are 

reliable. 
The  prices  are  as 

foUows:  »l,  tl.so,  (J 

and  *3  for  the  Cor 

sets,  and  %i  each 

fortbcBelti.  The 

accompanring  cut 

repivsents  our  No. 

«,  or  *l.tO  Conet. 

We  have   also  a 

beautiful  French  shap- 
ed Sateen  Conet  at  <3, 

also  a  fine  Sateen  Abdom- 
inal Corset  at»3,  and  a  short 

Sateen  Corset  at »:!.  The  *l 

and  Sl.tO  goods  are  made  of 

ane  Jean,  elegant  in  shape, 

stronganddurable.    Nur- 

Snggonets,  (I.6O1  Miss- 
es, lie.    All  are  double 
stitdied.     Cents*  and 
Ladies'  Belts,  *3  each ; 
'    Abdominal 


LadiesT 


Supporter,  an  invalu-. 
ableartiele. »».  They 
are  sent  out  In  a  hand- 


__l    lU   •»  il«ll*»- 

some  box,  accompanied  by  s 
silver-plated  compassby  which 
the  Elactra- Magnetic  influence 

M  tested.     Ff  you  cannot  ;„»,w 

.„„  torn  in  your  dnf  goods   ITiSi^iatijiglind  invliiSratlwmy 
Store,  remit  to  us  direct.    Wo    j^fj^bled   l5>dy,    awT  the    Hair 


TION. 

Holiis  Centre,  Me. 
I  sufleted  severely  from  back 
trouble  for  years  and  found  no 
relief  till  I  wore  Dr.  Sco:ts  Elec- 
tric Coijctf.  They  tureil  me, 
and  I  wou'd  not  be  without 
them.   MRS.  H.  D.  BENSON. 

Memphis,  1  ennessee. 

Dr.    Scott's   Electric  CorseU 

have  given  me  much  relief.    I 

suffered  four  years  with  breast 

trouble,   without  findUig  any 

benefit  from  other  remedies. 

They  are  Invaluable. 

MRS.  J  AS.  CAMPBBU- 

De  Witt,  N.  Y. 

I  have  an  invalid  sir/- 

ter  «ho  had  not  been 

dressed    fbr  a   y;ar. 

She   has    worn  Dr. 

Scotfs     Electric 

Corsets  fer    two 

weeks,  and  1$  now 

able  to  be  dressed 

and  sit  up  most  ot 

the  time. 

MELVAJ.DOB. 


will  send  either  kind  to  any 
address,  post-paid,  on  receipt 
of  price,  with  w  cents  added 
for  t>acking  and  postage 


Ne*ark.N.Y. 
Dr.  Scotfs  Electric  Corsets 
have  entirely  cured  me  of  mns- 


„        -Kfthe   Hair    nave  entireiycuim  ...>•"••-•--. 
Brush  had  a  rnagjc  ^Rect  on  my    ?l'^^'!;^rfr'Sl;a!i"he!'"  "' 

MRS.    1 .  r-.  oNVUlSK, 


cniar  riicuii.ww-..  — —  — 
severe  cose  of  heaclachc. 
MRS.  L.  C,  SPENCER. 


the  Electro- Magnetic  influence  ,  ,  ^„j  ,j,  scotfs  Electric  Cor. 
can  bd  tested,  ff  you  cannot  ^  nossesscd  miraculous  power 
find  «*mJ?.y??'.,?.2:,B°»gf    Instimulatijigandinvigoratlnpm^ 

enfeebled   body 

Brush  ■    ^  

scalp.    i.*R.T   «.».."...--—-, 
.,       ,  J       ^  Fancy  Goods  Dealer, 

for  t>acking  and  postage.  '  »....»,*    ao  nA.   TImIi 

Dr.8eott'«HeetricH«lr  BmBhes,  «1.00,  $1.60.  «2'<»».W;J»?  f,-^L"** 
BnuAM,  •8.00  8  Dr.  Seotfg  Hectric  tooth  Bru«he^  60  M»i«  LH^"** 

CVBIiEB,  60  e«Bt»;   WJNO  AND  HKBVE  IHYieOBA- 

"»        XOBS,  $6.00  ud  $10.00.  ^ 

t»-A  G004  lire  C"«««»8,Af*»t,;ii^" '5 
Toar  town  Ibr  these  •pleBdldiy  mI*™"*^  8"" 
^tCTmirhft.    LIBKBAI,  PAT,  <ftlCK  SAIBS.    g*""'"^ 
Apply""  owe.    GEO.  A.  8COTTr84a  Broadway,  N.  Y, 


II 


1 


Belts. 

Nuniig  Canet, 
.00. 

le  are  now  wearliiff 
ihoald  dkllf 


ILL  NOT  RIP. 

"  pretty  well,"  yet  Irck 
you  to  at  once  try  these 
ways  doing  good,  never 
brings  ut  IttlfnuHiaU 

itee  »«fe  delivery  into 
Kcmit  In  Posl-Oflice 
,  Draft,  Check,  or  in  Cur- 
■Kirtered  Letter  at  our 
•dering  ktndly  mention  . 
trary,  and  state  exact 
set  usually  worn.  Ma«« 
tances  payable  to  otu. 
OIT,  »ii  BROAD'-. AY, 
'  York.  ,  ,    , 

N.  B.— Each  article  U 
amped  with  the  English 
coat^)f-arnis,  and  the 
name  of  the  Pwif 
,      tors,     THE     PAI-L 

>MALU  ELECT- 
RIC     ASSOCIA- 
TION. 

Holiis  Centre,  Me. 
rered  severely  from  back 
e  for  years  and  found  no 
III  I  wore  Dr.  Sco  :fs  Elec- 
oisets.  They  cured  me, 
woD'.d  not  be  without 
MRS.H.  D.BBNSON. 

Memphis,  1  ennessee. 
Scott's  Electric  CorseU 
[iven  me  much  relief.  I 
"d  fonr  years  with  breast 
)le,  without  finding  any 
efit  from  other  remedies. 
hey  are  Invaluable. 
MRS.  J  AS.  CAMPBBIX. 

De  Wilt,  N.  Y. 
I  have  an  Invalid  sif/- 
ter  who  had  not  be,:n 
dressed    fi>r  a  yiar. 
She   has    worn  Dr. 
Scotf*    Electric 
Corset*  fer   two 
weeks,  and  Is  now 
able  to  be  dressed 
and  sit  up  most  ot 
the  time. 
MELVAJ.DOB. 

Newark.  N.Y. 
t.  Scotf*  Electric  Corsets 
e  entirely  cured  me  of  mns- 
ir  rheumatism,  and  also  ot 
ere  case  of  head.^chc. 
MRS.  L.  C.  Si>li.NCEB. 

$2.60,  $8.00  s  Fledi 
JOceatit  iMOUi* 
«TRIC   HAIB 
lyieOBA- 

ididir  adrertlMd  mA 


CK  SALES, 
i  Breadwar. 


8atura«. 
N.Y. 


The  tri 

cases  of 

distrpssli 

at  the  Jr 

Btituto,  1 

vast  ijxpi 

thoroiig-li 

cure  of  > 

»r.  PI 

tioii  Is  ti 

proiit  niK 

sands  of  i 

tionts  am 

tested  It 

obstinato 

eklil,  pro\ 

remedy  o 

cure  of  81 

commendi 

most    pei 

peculiar  a 

Aa    a 

tonic  it  i 

eystem,  ar 

Its  append 

worked,  " 

l)ilitatod  t 

ers,  scams 

keepers,  r. 

women  go 

Presoriptlc 

belngr  unci 

dial  and  r< 

digrostion  a 

nausea,  wc 

tion,  liloati 

As  a  SOI 

iiiR  ncrvl 

is  unequall 

ing  and  gu 

iiTitabllity, 

teria,  spjisir 

ouHHympto 

Junctional 

womb.    It 

relievos  lii< 

cnoy. 

^  Br.  Pier 

carefully  cf 
cd  and  skil 
to  woman's 
puraijrvegc 


oj.'SlP,I^r?i*'"''°*,"''  "^1"^  "louannds  of 
cases  of  those  chronio  woiiluicssfs  iind 
d  Btross  nw  'J  Iments  peculiar  to  teim  '4 

fj^"'?'  B'-ff"'".  N.  v..   has  ulfor,  ',]"„ 

nl  "i,.^„"""nn  8  peculiar  inaln.lips. 
tl^HifM*"'*'*'.*  Favorite  PrcNcrli). 

Bttntls  or  tesHmoaials  rec'c  vcd  from  in, 

tt  irln^^J?'"  I't'-vsieians  who"L  V. 
icstqa  It  In  tlio  jnoiv  iDrirmvafcr!  mni 

Soil'  P"^"^ °  '  '"  '"'  I''"  '""St  wonderful 
romecry  over  devise.!  for  tl.n  relief  and 

tonic  It  unparls  stroi'Hl.U  to  tho  wliolo 
system,  and  to  tho  uterus,  oAv  mb  and 
^  appendatres,  in  rartici3ar.    For  over- 

J^HtS  >"V"-""f'"  "run-down,"  de- 
bilitated teachers,  millincra,  dres.smak- 
crs,  seamstresses,  "shop-feriris,"  hVusel 
keepers,  nursing  motlicrS,  ,  ud  "ceWo 
T^^^3  B-onorally,  Kr.  Pierce'H  Favorito 
Prescription  is  tlio  preatest  earthly  boon 

dial  and  restorativo  toiiio.  It  promotes 
n^fi"°"  ""?  "««"nilation  of  food  cures 
Hn.rft^T"'*"'^  °*  Btomacli,  iidige^ 
%"j'''"«t'"X"?.le'-uctationsof  fml  ^ 


^^^^^  harmless  In  Its  cffocte  In  any 
condition  of  the  system.  ' 

pOHitlvo   euro    for  the  most  eoinpi" 
eaU'dmid  obstinate  eases  of  i.ue.uT  .'n 
or    wii.t..»,"  excssive  llowiuK  at  to.    h' 

ural  suppressions,  i>rolupsuH  or  f  ||n» 
ot  the  womb,  wcalt  btek,  "teniale  w  .k 
ne88."untever8ion,n,.tro;er8ion,  ,Trin^: 
down  sc.nsations,  chronic  ™  .Kest  on  in 
lammntion  and  ulceration ,,"  thj  won  h 
inllammatlon.  pain  and  t  mern™  in 
"  Ju'pi4'4';»T.Vi;i'.''":J iV""  ".'/-'•nallfea't! 

eonSnf  iVVf^eirk^^ 
latter  months  <.l' pc"fit  on'^'i  'L^ripa"  a 
he  system   for   deli,'ery  as  to"  Kreat  v 

i-'iL-ordi^au'      *'"'  «"'rf"nssof  that  try- 

taken   m    ronncetion  witli   the  use  nf 
l^r.  I'ier.e'H  (Joldon  Medical  I  tacowi^ 


,  AS  asooThiirg"^^^",  s  8t;^r4f/ij-„. 

ni^°„S??'*"V'i  ","''  '8  invaluable  in  n  laV- 
ritabllif'v '^vh  "^  nervous  exeitabilitA-, 
11  ritablllty, exhaustion,  pro<!(ration  hv'sl 
toria,  spasms  and  other.listrr^  "g,  np^^t 
ous8y.nptpniscommonlyatt(.n.luutupon 
wnmh""r"i^  ■"","  "'•eranic  disease  of  the 
^.V,'?*'-  J*  Induces  refreshing'  sleep  and 
relieves  mental  anxiety  an.!  desK 

tl?H    u'®a**i^  Favorite  Prcscrlp. 

carefully  eompounde.l  liy  an  exneripn.. 
t.'^i'JJli  skillful  physiciu^,  and^dSptoi 
to  woman's  delicate  organization      It  /« 


.s'h'  The!;  CO  "r^,'""'  Bladder  "is 
<  .i.s>  H.  J  ii.ir  combined  use  also  removeq 
Mood    taints,  and   nbolislKJi  onno.m«« 

Olio  irom  <lyr-pep6ia,  another  from  heaS 
disease,  nnotlier  from  liver  or  kidn^ 
d.iseaso,  nnofher  from  nervous  ex hmfZ 
ion  or  piostruti.)n,  another  with  nain 
uio  or  there,  and  In  tiiis  way  thcv  all 
present,  alike  to  fliemselves  and  their 
oasy-froinff  and  ixKlilferc-nt,  or  over-busv 
doetor  s..pa,.uto  and  distinct  diseaLes^ 
for  wlucU   ho    r"-Mcribe3  his  pX  mS 

when,  in  reality,  they  arc  all  only  Smill 
tnms  caused  bv  somo  womb  dsoK" 
1^  '«  Pl'Vsician,  ffemorant  of  the  ckuM  of 
suirerino;,  cncouniBts  his  practice  until 
urgo  bills  arc  made.  The  sunerlnJ^na: 
lent  gets  no  better,  but  pro  ably  wo?ST 
by  reason  of  tho  delay.  wronK  treatment 
and  consc-qucnt  compTieations.    A  woS 

Prescription,  directed  to  the  rai/'c  woul<? 

mvo  entirely  removed  thodiSe  thOTc- 

I  ^,''i''P''"V*''''"  tl'oso  distressing  sym^ 

p."io\;i;j;\';;f4t"v""*^"'™'"'^'°«'«""«^ 

"Favorlio  I^rcscriptloii"  la  tho 

only  medieino  f.>r  wonu.fi  s,".'  bv  dri.^ 
piRi",  under  a  puHltivo  Kuaramec" 
tiom  tho  tnanufactui-ers,  tlu"  it  ,vn? 
pivp  satisfaction  in  every  6as,".  or  mom  » 
via  bo  refunded.    This  giiarantS  haX 

t^  S.'ii.l  (en  «  nts  in  stamps  for  Dr 
Pierce's  im-fi-e,  illustrated  "n-catise  am 

"^  vn?^*?.'"''"^  ^^^'"'■^  Association, 


J 


°*' tod'-To  the  superior  quality,  shape  and  workmanship  of  our  Corsets,  oomblii 

'"^^cL'eSp^ions  made  of  -^7«  •^'^ts'^de^of  steeTrver  ^"'^''  "''' 
"  DR   WARNER'S  COR/LINE  "  Is  printed  on  inside  of  steel  cover. 

FOB  BAlJt  BT  AIJ.  LBADIHO  MEBCHANT9. 

WARNER    BROTHERS.   359    BROADWAY.    NEW   YORK. 


11 


nvMlSSES: 


elous  saocws  ia  dui- 
■lals,  as  a  Htlffeuor  f 

mr  (Jorstjts,  oombln'.'  | 

no  are  genuine  unl'">: 
•.over. 


NEW    YORK. 


y 


k.... 


